


and the stars dreamed ever on

by aubadechild



Series: Caritas [1]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Angst, Carnival, Demon Deals, Demonic Contract, Demons, Ghosts, Gothic, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, and a lot of characters who are significant, i'll tag pertinent characters as they appear, there are three other main ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-08-20 20:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16562264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aubadechild/pseuds/aubadechild
Summary: Since he was a child, Ventus has only ever dreamed of lighting children’s faces with the same joy he once experienced on a single night each year, on his orphanage’s annual trip to the opera. But ten years since he was thrust into a hope-devouring society, he finds that he’s hardly able to feed himself, much less fund his wide-eyed daydreams of putting together a spectacular show. As the last light of hope drains from his eyes, he finds his shadow scattered beneath the mosaic light of stained glass windows for the first time since his childhood, praying to God that the unforgiving world might take pity on him and grant him one last chance to make his wildest dreams come true…...but it’s not God who answers.





	1. Prologue: The Ringmaster's Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to baby's first longfic! At its completion this fic will total thirteen chapters, a prologue, and an epilogue. Each chapter will be preceded by warnings in the summary for that particular chapter, if any warnings apply. I'm aiming to update every Thursday (at least!). It starts a little slow, but I hope you stick with me and see how this story unfolds! I'll update the tags/ships/characters/potentially rating as things progress, because there are a few important secondary ships & more significant characters as well. Pixels dividers are from [here](http://studiopixels.tumblr.com/dividers). Last but not least, you can find me on [Tumblr](https://aubadechild.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/aubadechild) for updates/if you want to stop by to chat. Thank you for reading!

_Have you heard of The Sunset Waltz?_

_They say it’s the biggest circus in the whole wide world._

_They say it’s a real hoot, but if you stay too long after the lights go down,_

_who knows what might happen..._

 

_And haven’t you heard?_

_They say Lucifer himself endorses this unholy charade._

_They say that demons dance within those tents,_

_and sirens sing,_

_and that it never appears in the same place twice—_

_that it shows up without warning,_

_only to disappear the next day without a trace,_

_like a fever dream..._

 

_And did you hear about the ringmaster?_

_Well?_

_Did you?_

_They say that at the beginning of the show_

_when the ringmaster appears beneath the spotlight,_

_if you pay attention you can tell…_

_...you can tell…_

_...you can tell that the ringmaster…_

**_...doesn’t have a shadow..._ **

 

From the darkness of the sawdust stage, Ventus stared at the crowd with stars in his eyes. In the silence of their anticipation he could hear the natural violence of his heartbeat forcing more adrenaline than blood through his veins, that waterfall of sound rushing toward a crescendo, quieted only by the slow cadence of his breath. Unlit bulbs hung bat-like in strings draped lazily from the striped ceiling of the tent; mere seconds from now they would burst to life in a dazzling display of electric wonder, accompanied by the horns, the drums, the scraping of the hooves, the creaking of the ropes.

_But now._

Now was the moment to do what he did best: pave the way for them. In the center of the room Ventus felt small: a single man held aloft by the collective held breath of the assembly before him; a modern Atlas shouldering the burden of their dreams and their hopes, their fears, their nightmares.

“Is this what you came for?! Darkness?” he shouted into the dark, which always managed to rip a few awkward laughs from an impatient audience. “It’s not, is it?”

His boots fell softly as he paced. Long ago he’d stopped worrying about whether or not the spotlight would find him; his lighting technician always seemed to know exactly where he’d end up despite the pitch black of the tent. Perhaps the man did not possess the strange and often supernatural talents of some of the other members of Ventus’s troupe, but he had an uncanny knack for that.

“Does it unnerve you? Being in the dark?” Ventus continued. He spun his cane idly and caught it in his other hand.

A few people shouted “YES”, while others, the voices of the younger, the braver, replied “NO”.

“Well, I know I’d be saying _yes_ right along with you folks if I were up there. It frightens me, too. But if you’re never in the dark, how can you appreciate”—he snapped his fingers, the cue—“when the lights come on?”

The spotlight beamed down upon him like a ray from the heavens above, illuminating the shimmering suit of crimson red he wore, complete with its matching top hat. He removed the hat and bowed, and the audience clapped politely.

“But I’m not here to teach you a lesson,” he told them, fixing the hat back atop his head. “In fact _I’m_ not here to do much at all. I’m just here to introduce you, my friends, to a night of fun, a night of mystery, a night of enchantment. Ladies and gentlemen, please sit back, relax, and enjoy The Sunset Waltz.”

On the last word all the dormant lights flickered on at once, and a flap opened at the back of the tent to make way for the opening act: a pair of rare albino elephants, atop which perched (at least in Ventus’s opinion) two of the most graceful acrobats in the world. The fanfare began, an exuberant medley of trumpets, snares, and tantalizingly anxious strings, all held together by the circus’s massive prized calliope.

As he did every show, Ventus made swift work of his usual disappearing act, which consisted of the surprisingly mundane magic of slipping through a back door while the crowd was enraptured by the main spectacle. And oh, was the crowd _enraptured_ tonight! Within seconds they had forgotten all about Ventus’s introduction, their minds now brimming with color and sound.

Ventus removed his gloves and tossed them onto the little table in the dressing area.

“Another resounding success,” a strange voice whispered. The words curled out of the shadows in the opposite corner of the room like wisps of smoke, echoing and bouncing off of each other, resonating in what sounded at times like multiple voices all saying the same thing, only slightly out of sync.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Ventus responded with a wry smile.

But unbeknownst to him, unbeknownst to anyone, one young man at the back of the seating area was tugging at the shirtsleeve of another and whispering, “Hey, hey! Did you see that? They were right... the ringmaster really doesn’t have a shadow.”

  



	2. It Begins With A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: brief depictions of suicidal ideation, drug mention, a character is depicted as starving, religious imagery.

**FIVE YEARS EARLIER**  

****

_Starstruck_.

_Ventus had grown up starstruck._

He dreamt of the opera even now, ten long years since he’d last had the privilege of seeing it performed live on that magnificent stage, all lit up like Christmas: the actors appearing from the wings in mysterious puffs of smoke, or raised aloft on beams of radiant light, suspended in the air as if by magic, as if gravity itself had made an exception of them. In their extravagant costumes they had come from fantastical lands, from far-off places where fairies blessed the lucky ones, where demons roamed free, always to be beaten back by some dashing young man with a shining silver sword. These were worlds where dreams came true so long as the dreamer dreamed them hard enough. These were worlds where anything wished was possible.

These were worlds so painfully unlike his own.

Back then, at least, he had lacked the maturity to separate fantasy from reality. Even long after he’d stopped believing in unicorns, Ventus had still struggled to douse the hope that someone would rescue him. But that was just another fantasy, best left to childhood and dreams. He still remembered how it felt back then. To be starstruck. To glance around at the soft red seats surrounding him and see his friends—his fellow orphans—light up with glee, watching, rapt, as wondrous tales unfolded before their very eyes. To witness, for a single night out of every year, real hope appear on their faces.

 _Yes,_ he’d thought to himself, pure conviction folding his hands into fists. _I will be a part of that someday. I will be responsible for the smiles on the faces of other kids just like me. Kids without homes, without pasts, without futures. I will create my own future, and I will share it with the world._

But this morning, as he struggled against the oppressive weight of the world pressing down on his hollow ribcage, and then again, when at last he stood and held his arms out in front of him and saw the blue ink of his veins bulging atop bones through which light leaked, they were so thin—this morning, he saw the last shreds of his hope floating in the air before him and sinking slowly to the ground; his fast fleeting dreams resembled the discarded feathers of molting angels (but no, nothing so beautiful).

Ventus stared into the bathroom mirror and a ghost stared back. He had one foot in the underworld, the other stubbornly planted on shaky soil. He hung his aching head and dug his fingernails into the enamel of the cracked sink.

He’d had lofty visions, once. Thought the world itself was possible.

_It isn’t possible._

How could he fund the most spectacular show the world had ever seen if he couldn’t even afford to keep himself from becoming a walking skeleton?

Ven sighed, opened the medicine cabinet, and found the last two tabs of an ancient pain medication he’d held onto in case of emergency. He swallowed them dry—no use wasting water—and waited until a cloud descended to displace the throbbing pain in his skull. With the pain dull and distant, he straightened his back and pulled on his best pants, his best jacket, and his best smile. Terra and Aqua had invited him to tea that afternoon, and he would drag his body there, _dammit_ , even if it was the last thing he ever did.

 

 

“We want to help you,” Terra told Ventus as he sipped a steaming cup of chamomile tea.

The son of a successful businessman, Terra lived in a townhouse in a part of the city whose population had repeatedly told Ventus in no uncertain terms that he had no business in it. Their friendship was a matter of sheer happenstance. Back before Ventus had found himself suddenly staring down the gaping maw of unemployment he’d saved every last penny, aside from the small sum he allotted each month for a single night out to grab a drink and congratulate himself for his hard work. Never patronizing the same bar twice, he’d worked his way through the city and ended up in a rather high-brow establishment on that fateful night. Terra had slid next to him at the bar, and the rest was history.

“You know I can’t accept that,” Ventus responded, half-laughing.

Across the table from him, Aqua raised a delicate porcelain teacup to her lips and quirked an eyebrow. They’d been introduced by none other than Terra himself; the two had grown up playing side-by-side and were practically inseparable. Anything Ventus told one, he knew he was also telling the other.

“Ven, you don’t have to weather this storm alone,” Aqua said. “At least let us buy you some food. Maybe some new clothes. Please. It’s the least we can do.”

She glanced at Terra, who met her gaze and held it for a moment. Sadness floated in the air between them, and even though he hadn’t known them nearly as long as they’d known each other, Ven could still read their expressions: _Each time we see you, we fear it will be the last…_

But Ventus only scratched at the back of his head (a clump of thin, dull blonde hair fell through his fingers) and laughed again. “Really, I’m fine,” he assured them. “I have a job lined up at the textile factory, so I’m sure I’ll be back on my feet in no time.”

Aqua eyed him suspiciously. “Didn’t we hear that a month ago? But you’re no better off than you were last time we met. Ven, if you ask me, it seems as though you’re _worse_ off—”

“Look, you can’t just expect us to sit around while our friend suffers!” Terra cut in, and Aqua turned sharply to look at him in alarm. Terra’s anger had always been a strange, dispassionate force; he rarely raised his voice above a speaking volume but anger altered the quality of it, hollowed it out like an echo chamber of itself, and the strong muscles of his sharp jaw quivered as it seethed just beneath the surface of his skin. This subtle shift in his demeanor had once instilled more fear in Ven than an outright outburst would have, but now it made him want to return in kind.

“Just because you see me as a child doesn’t mean you should treat me like one,” Ven said through his teeth, punctuating each word with the _clink_ of his small silver spoon against a borrowed saucer that likely cost more than an entire year’s worth of rent on his small, dilapidated apartment. “Please, while I’m here I want to spend some quality time with my friends and forget about my life for a few hours. I don’t wish to fight.”

Aqua shook her head. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t up for negotiation, Ven. Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re wasting away. I’m afraid by our next meeting there won’t be anything left of you…”

“That’s fine, then,” Ven murmured. “The life I lead isn’t one worth continuing anyway.”

For a moment, everyone went silent and gazed into their respective teacups. Ven had since finished his; the tea leaves gathered in the shape of a future he could not interpret. He stared at them until his vision blurred, until they took forms both monstrous and mundane.

Then Terra sighed. “At least take home some leftover pastries,” he said, holding up a hand to stop Ven before he could protest. “Please, Ventus. It’s the least we can do.”

“I helped make them,” Aqua added. “It would be rude not to.”

Ventus pursed his lips. The inherent power imbalance between them often made him feel inferior and small, as he could do little to repay their kindness. But perhaps he could accept such a small token of their goodwill. Just this once.

“I accept,” Ven conceded. They would see him alive through the end of the week at the very minimum (provided he didn’t fall ill, or something equally drastic occurred).

Terra stood, his expression visibly relieved. “Good. I’ll go wrap them up for you, if you’d like.”

Ven managed a smile. “Thank you,” he said.

When Terra had left the room, Aqua leaned forward and rested her head atop folded hands. “We really care about you, Ven,” she said. “Don’t ever forget that. If anything happened to you, I don’t know what we would do.”

“I know. But I want to be successful in my own right. If I ever end up achieving any of my dreams, I want it to be through my own hard work.” Ventus absently tugged at a loose thread coming undone from the tablecloth. “Even if it means losing myself in the process, I don’t mind.”

“Do you still have the same dream?” Aqua asked. “About the show? And making people happy?”

“I...I don’t know if it’s possible. But… I haven’t entirely given up yet, either.”

Aqua smiled. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s sweet. Don’t give up just yet, all right? Because I’m already planning on booking tickets for Terra and I. Front row seats. Look for us there.”

“...I will,” Ven told her.

Terra soon returned with a woven basket filled to the brim with pastries and a few extras, which Ven decided to politely ignore for the time being.

“It’s almost sundown,” Terra said. “Do you think you should be getting home soon?”

Outside, the golden hour was upon them. It was Ventus’s favorite time of day, when the sun gave one last hurrah before ushering in the night. The city’s architecture seemed to breathe under the weight of twilight, buildings rendered in new depths as the shadows grew to fill the spaces the light left behind. Somewhere nearby, bells were ringing, but he hadn’t become fully aware of the sound until it was too late to count the hour.

“I think I’ll take the long way home,” Ventus replied.

Their goodbyes came in the form of long embraces and promises to see each other soon. Terra and Aqua walked him down to the front door, but Aqua had decided to stay for dinner, so with one last glance over his shoulder, Ventus departed with the basket around his arm.

But he would not go home just yet. Not before the last rays of sunlight accepted defeat and slunk back beneath the hills.

 

 

For the first time in years Ventus wandered into a church.

He had not necessarily intended to end up there. He simply had not wanted to go home yet, and perhaps the divine had played a role in guiding his steps, but here he was. A little prayer had never hurt anyone.

Particles of dust hung suspended in the air. The dying amber light had no domain here; this was where the holiest of shadows walked, and Ventus’s own scattered beneath a mosaic of stained glass. A few bowed heads populated the pews but the sanctuary was otherwise empty, devoid of breath or sound save the echo of Ventus’s footsteps which despite his best efforts he could not muffle. He made his way to one of the vestibules and sat. As a child they had taught him to bow his head in prayer, but how could he when these magnificent windows had been designed to draw the eye upward toward heaven itself?

He felt a bit foolish staring up into the rafters, wondering if someone was staring back. Even if God _did_ exist, did He care? That he ostensibly had the power to intervene, to wipe the world of suffering and create a paradise on Earth, but _refused_ , left a sour taste in Ven’s mouth.

Like a stilted conversation with a long-time friend turned acquaintance by absence, Ventus found he no longer knew how to talk to God, what to say.

 _God,_ he thought, and closed his eyes, _if you’re up there, if you haven’t abandoned me yet then please, please, I could really use a miracle right now._

Ven sat patiently for as long as he could bear. Eventually the light from the stained glass window began to fade, and he exhaled, picked himself up, and meandered through the maze of pews once more, bound for the solemn wooden doors at the entrance.

Outside the coming night had tugged a blanket of storm over the dome of the sky, and droplets of rain gathered in congregations of puddle in the potholes of the uneven streets. Ventus tugged his threadbare coat tighter. It would protect him from neither cold nor rain, but it was at least a step above not having a coat at all. He shivered, imagining the moldy damp of his bedroom enveloping him like a kind of cursed cloak. He was starving, teetering on the edge of the tightrope between living and dead, and between the thunder and the droplets that would inevitably worm their ways through the cracks in his ceiling, the chances of him sleeping that night were slim to none.

At least he wasn’t sick. _Yet_.

 _So much for a miracle,_ he thought bitterly. He kicked a bit of loose gravel and cursed. As if in response, a fork of lightning lit the sky. Not a blink later, a bone-shaking clap of thunder followed, signaling the start of a sudden, violent downpour of hail.

Ventus began to run as best he could (which turned out to be more of a belaboured jog), pausing to catch his breath on porches and under awnings for as long as he dared before continuing. The sickly yellow sky mocked him. _Only unfortunates pray,_ it seemed to say. _There are no gods here. Only the storm. Only the sky._

At long last he arrived at the door to his building, soaked to the marrows and shaking like a twig. He swallowed with the knowledge that no heat awaited him inside and pushed open the door. The hall was filled with an eerie dark; no one had thought to turn the lamps on this early in the day. In fact it was likely no one was around to do so.

Ven squelched his way up the rickety stairs. Inside his apartment he stripped off his coat and hung it on a hook by the door, though with the leaks in the ceiling it would not dry until the rain stopped. The basket of pastries Terra had gifted him had been rendered unedible as well. With a sigh he lowered his aching body to the floor and began to tug off his boots when he noticed it: a crumpled piece of paper stuck to the sole of his shoe, its purpose almost entirely obscured by running colors and melting words. Curious, he peeled it off and squinted at it in the dim light.

 _WE CAN MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE,_ it read, in an ink that might have once been black, now purplish and waterlogged. There had been a drawing, too, above the text, but it was too smeared to make out even the vaguest idea of what it might have depicted. Ven flipped the flier over. On the back, preserved in an almost perfect state, was an address, a date, and a time: tomorrow at five o’clock, a residential location.

Ventus blinked.

_Dreams._

That was right. He’d had those once, hadn’t he? Aspirations, aims to become something above himself, to transcend his lowly station and transform into a beacon of hope for others, to finally return the favor he owed the world. The jaded part of him, the part that grew with each passing day, warned him against hope. It reminded him these lofty ideals would remain as such, never to manifest in reality the way he’d wished all those years ago. _Stay away from the edge,_ it said. _You will fall. You will despair. These vain hopes are not wings, they are wires._

But the part of him that dared to dream still remained. A handful of feathers had not yet molted, clung stubbornly to his thoughts, though they stung.

That part of him said, _Jump. You might find you can fly after all._

He stumbled into bed clutching the flier to his bony chest, and dreamed of the walls unfolding around him. There he stood in the center, surrounded by smiles and laughter and cheers, an audience shrouded in the shadows of a massive tent. And a single spotlight shone down upon him, radiant beam of light from on high illuminating him with electric warmth, and he was never hungry, and he was adored by all.

 


	3. By Gaslight It Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: brief mildly ableist language, brief implication of suicidal ideation. a character questions their grip on reality and wonders if they have been drugged. a character becomes injured and the injury is described.

The following day, out of breath and slick with coldsweat, Ventus arrived at the provided address just as the bells finished their fifth toll. In a small, gated courtyard, a line of fifty or so equally distressed, hungry people wound up to a foreboding wrought iron door. No sooner had Ven tapped the shoulder of the man in front of him to ask if he had any additional information than a tall, angular man in a long, black cloak emerged from within the residence. He sported a fierce scar that ran the length of his left cheek, and a patch that covered the opposite eye. He raised his hands to quiet the crowd.

“Settle down, settle down!” he said, almost as if he was annoyed that he even had to say it. A hush fell. He continued, “We’re going to begin now, so this is your last chance to leave. My associate”—he gestured toward the gate through which Ventus had entered, where another man, dressed similarly to Eyepatch but sporting a much shorter, fluffier hairstyle, grinned at the assembly without an ounce of his partner’s thinly-concealed malice—”will be closing the gate. Now, once that gate closes, none of you are leavin’ through it. Understand?”

A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd, and Eyepatch clasped his hands together. When he smiled, Ven thought he caught a glimpse of sharpened canines pricking at his lips, but perhaps it was his imagination. A polite moment came and went. The collective desperation of the group seemed to be enough to anchor them all to the courtyard, and soon enough the gate creaked shut behind them.

“Great. My name’s Braig,” the Eyepatch man told them. “I’m gonna go ahead and take our first willing specimen back here. You, sir. Come on up.” He beckoned toward a lanky man with sunken cheeks and thin, straw-like hair.

The first participant shuffled over. Ven strained to listen as Braig whispered something to the man, but the crowd had begun to converse once more, and the already muffled words drowned beneath the low din. After that the line moved quickly, although the interval between candidates varied. Braig continued to appear like a reaper come to usher their souls to the underworld, for none of the participants who entered ever came back out.

“So, what’d’ya think they’re doing in there?” the man in line before Ven said suddenly, whipping around to face him. Ven almost started, then remembered he’d been about to ask him the same thing a mere hour or so prior.

“Honestly?” Ven replied. “I don’t have any idea. I just hope it’s nothing illegal.”

“Well, if I were you I’d consider lowering my expectations. You saw the flier, right? No one except us desperate types would have shown up anyway. That’s probably what they were counting on.” He paused to stretch his arms toward the sky, then thrust his hand toward Ven. “Name’s Lea,” he announced.

Ven shook his hand and ventured a smile. “I’m Ventus. Call me Ven.”

“Alright, Ven! Pleased to meet ya!” Lea exclaimed in a voice loud enough to turn some heads. “Since I’m in front, I’ll be sure to tell you all about it when I come back out. Say, we’ve got some time to kill, so why don’t you tell me about yourself? What’s your dream?”

“It’s silly,” Ven laughed. He scratched at the back of his head, embarrassed. “But ever since I was a kid I wanted to have my own opera company, or theatre troupe, or something like that. Something people can turn to when they need to escape the real world, where they can always count on a smile or a laugh to brighten their day. Like I said, it’s silly.”

Lea beamed and clapped him on the back, not unkindly. “You dream big, huh?” he said. “But I respect that. I guess you could say I envy you. It’s a noble dream. You seem like a great guy, Ven. Not many of those left these days. I hope you can make it come true.”

Color bloomed in Ven’s cheeks, and he chuckled nervously. “We’ll see,” he replied. “And what about you? What’s yours?”

At that, Lea’s expression grew somber. His fingers curled into fists. He said, “To find my best friend. He went missing a few months ago. Everyone keeps telling me he’s dead, but… I know he’s out there. I can feel it.”

“What’s his name?” Ven asked. “So I can keep an eye out.”

“His name is Is—” Lea began, but Braig materialized in the doorway just in time to cut him off.

“Hey, redhead!” he barked, gesturing impatiently. “Let’s move, let’s move!”

“I’m coming!” Lea called back. “Well, that’s my cue. I’ll see you on the other side,” he told Ven, turning to go.

“Wait.” Ven tugged Lea back by the shirtsleeve, prompting the latter to glance over his shoulder in alarm.

“What is it?” Lea said.

“Just—good luck in there,” Ven told him. “I hope you find your friend.”

Lea offered Ven an expression of mixed hope and resignation. “Don’t worry,” he assured him. “I’ll find him. And when I do, we’ll both come to your show.”

Ven nodded and released his grasp on Lea’s shirt. On the stoop, Braig shook his head. When Lea reached the door Braig placed a guiding hand on his upper back and all but shoved him inside, shutting the door behind them with a resounding slam.

Now Ventus stood alone in the courtyard.

The surrounding buildings stared him down with glowing yellow eyes for windows, passively malicious in the way only empty city streets could be: more the suggestion of a threat, of a creature looming in the dark, than the threat itself.

He shivered. This was undoubtedly a scam, yet he could not leave: if not for the gate shutting him in, then for the sake of his own curiosity. With a measured inhale he tried to do as Lea had suggested and lower his expectations. But the advice did little to soften the blow of Lea not returning from the depths of the house, however inevitable it had always been.

When Braig finally returned, nearly half an hour had passed.

“You,” Braig said, jabbing a long, crooked finger in Ven’s direction. “ _You’re_ the last one? Is this that old man’s idea of a joke? If the _rest_ of them didn’t make the cut, then... Well, can’t say I see much point in letting you give it a try, but orders are orders, and mine were clear: _let everyone who shows up have a chance._ ”

“R-right,” Ventus mumbled. “So are you, er, going to explain everything once we go inside?”

Braig laughed. “As if! All _you_ have to know is how to stand still. And I mean don’t _move,_ don’t _twitch,_ don’t even _flinch._ Oh, and”—he pried open the wrought iron door, inviting Ventus inside with a sweeping gesture and an unnervingly toothy grin—”make sure you do whatever ‘it’ tells you to do.”

“It?” Ventus repeated. Braig only shook his head and laughed again.

“Follow me, kid,” he said.

Inside the residence, Ven’s eyes struggled to adjust to the low light. Shadows swarmed, and walls closed around him like a throat. Braig led him down halls that seemed to twist and shift and double back on themselves, past portraits of stern-looking men in black cloaks similar to what Braig and his associate wore, and unlit candelabras, and mirrors that reflected only the gaping maw of darkness that digested them both with every step. Ven had never exhibited impeccable spacial awareness, but his subconscious warned him of the unusual properties this house seemed to possess, how it appeared to transcend its blueprint and make allowances for hundreds of extra square feet of space where space ought not to be.

As Ventus was reaching a point where his fatigue had begun to outweigh politeness, Braig suddenly stopped in front of a large, black door, almost causing Ven to bump into him.

“Sorry for the run-around,” Braig told him. “You can’t be too careful, what with our occupation.”

“Which is...?” Ven ventured.

Braig didn’t respond to that. He produced a set of keys from some pocket deep within his cloak and unlocked the door.

“After you,” he said. Ven shuffled in.

Arranged in a circle in the center of the room were what Ven counted to be thirteen lit candles, all burned down to different heights. Aside from the candles, hooded figures milled about the room, leaning against walls or sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor. It was too dim to discern whether or not there were windows, but he assumed that the room was windowless by the lack of light seeping in; perhaps it had been constructed at the center of the house. _No escape,_ Ven’s more jaded side whispered. He pushed it back down, set his jaw.

Behind him, Braig shut the door with a dull thud. Ventus tried to suppress his rising panic as he heard the telltale sound of a deadbolt lock click into place.

“Don’t be concerned,” said Braig. “It’s just for safety.”

 _Safety for whom?_ Ven wondered.

“So how does this work?” he asked. “What happened to the other participants? Did they pass?”

“No,” Braig chuckled. “No, sad to say, none of ‘em made the cut. If they did, we wouldn’t need you. At any rate, I’m going to have some stern words for that little witch next time we meet if it turns out this lead was a dead end. But we’ll see, eh?”

Ventus nodded, a blank expression on his face as a million questions flooded his already overworked brain. _Witch?_ Had he heard that correctly? And what kind of test could he possibly pass where smarter, stronger, or luckier contestants had failed? Where was the secret back entrance through which they’d left? Had they received any token of appreciation for their participation or simply been turned away empty-handed? He supposed he would have to wait and find out, though he could not deny his growing apprehension.

“So, like I said earlier,” Braig continued, “all I need you to do is stand in the center of this circle and stay completely still. I mean _completely,_ do you understand? No fear, no flinching. And if it speaks to you, you do whatever it tells you to do, no questions. All right?”

“Sounds easy enough,” Ven replied, puffing up his chest a bit to add to the illusion of courage. “How hard could it be?”

Braig winked. “We’ll go ahead and get started, then.”

He tugged his hood over his head, and the other figures came to join him. They stopped just outside the perimeter of the candles and linked hands in a circle around Ventus. In the center Ven felt vulnerable, naked. He counted the beats of his pulse to give himself something on which to focus. _One-two… three-four…_

Around him, the figures began to chant in a language he did not recognize. Their voices hummed in sync with one another with a resonance that struck Ven as otherworldly, alien. _Five-six… seven-eight…_

Then, just as abruptly as it had started, the chanting ceased. The silence dripped down Ven’s back like sweat. He could feel the weight of eyes all around, waiting for something, watching for something.

But nothing happened.

Another beat slipped past, and Braig began to speak: “That _sneaky_ little _witch!_ Tricking us into thinking we’d find _that person_ in this city? As if! When we see her again, I’ll—”

But Ven never found out what Braig would have done, because at that moment the candles erupted into pillars of flame, and he heard a loud thump, as though the group had collapsed all at once. He could not see, however, for the flames joined together in a circle separating him from the strange assembly. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed his body to stay strong and immobile, like a stone.

He thought to himself: _You’re not here, you’re not here. No, you’re standing at the center of a glorious stage..._

The radius of the circle of fire shrank until the discomfort began to mount under the heat teasing at his clothes, the hungry tongues of flame lapping at his skin, the smoke stinging his goldfish-wide eyes. His eyes itched; his fingers ached to twitch to scratch them but he refused the instinct, fought the base desire to alleviate his discomfort.

_The musical notes shimmer tangibly in the dusty air…_

Out of the roar of the blaze rose a laugh so vile Ven felt his very veins begin to dissolve. A vicious, guttural voice hissed in his ear in the language of burning coals: _Look at you, stubborn enough not to flinch even now. Between you and I, some of those freaks came close, but they all chickened out in the end. But you, little human... There must be something you really want._

Ven failed to keep his nostrils from flaring, but that didn’t same to faze the voice. It moved in slow orbit as if surveying him, whispered in both his ears, an echo of itself.

 _Your body is weak, but you’ll do. I can give you what you want,_ it continued. _For a price. Would you like that? Answer me._

“But I have nothing to give,” Ventus blurted out, and immediately a tongue of flame extended itself in his direction, crooked as a finger, to point at his sternum.

 _So long as you live, you have something to give,_ the voice told him. _I’m talking about your soul, of course._

Ven swallowed. “You mean you want… my soul?”

Again, the voice laughed. _I’m not going to take it right now, you imbecile. What would be the fun in that? No, for as long as you’re alive, I’ll ensure all your wildest dreams come true. But once you die, I’ll devour your soul in Hell in exchange for my services here on Earth. So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?_

“I...I guess we do.” Ven’s arms ached from keeping his fists tightly clenched for so long. He blinked, then tilted his chin to stare resolution into the dark that melted beyond the perimeter of fire. “I don’t care what happens to me after I die. I just want to make some people happy while I’m alive. I always did want to make the world… a little brighter.”  

The strange incorporeal entity summoned a scroll of paper out of thin air. Ven watched, his jaw slightly agape, as words bloomed from nothingness, filling the page with paragraph upon paragraph of legal jargon and other nonsensical terms.

 _Do you have a name, human?_ asked the voice.

“Ventus—er, my friends call me Ven, but—”

 _Ventus, Ven, do you think they pay me to care? I just need something to tell the boss. Now, sign on the dotted line_ —Ven inhaled in alarm as a pen created itself between his fingers— _and then we can discuss that grand vision of yours._

So Ventus scribbled his name at the bottom of the document, his signature an illegible mess of cursive determination. The contract disappeared in a puff of sparks and fluttering embers, and in the same instant the outer fire extinguished itself, plunging the room into absolute darkness once more.

 _It is done,_ the voice informed him. _And now, we have to run._

“Run?” Ven said. In a shadowed corner, one of the fallen figures had started to cough their way back to consciousness.

 _Yes, idiot!_ _Run! They brought you here as a sacrifice! Or were you too stupid to figure that out? Whatever. Do as I say, and we might make it out of here alive…_

“We?” Ven said. “Sacrifice? Wha—”

Before he could finish playing out his bewilderment he was struck with the sudden insurmountable urge to _run._ So he bolted, tearing through the door without a second thought as to how it had come unlocked. He sprinted down the winding maze of halls and found his feet remembered which turns to take before his brain even had a chance to compute his location. He simply ran, soon pushing past the wrought iron entrance gate (now ajar); his legs burned and his heart stammered, but he continued to ignore the flaring discomfort until he found himself on a narrow side street and allowed himself to stop, collapse down onto the gravel road, and wheeze.

When his thumping pulse began to quiet, Ven ran a hand back through his matted hair. His wild eyes darted everywhere. _What_ was _that? Some kind of bizarre hallucination? Had they drugged him?_

The voice—if there had ever _been_ one—was gone. He rose slowly, body quivering like a plucked string. Reward be damned, it wasn’t worth _this_. A sob threatened to tear through him, but it would have to wait until he was back home safe, where his tears could join the condensation on the window panes of the dilapidated old apartment.

Yesterday’s rainwater had not yet evaporated from some of the puddles in the street. For want of a better way to clear his head, Ventus knelt again and splashed cold, dirty water across his face. _Each day brought a new low, it seemed. How low till he hit bedrock, till the grave was dug?_ He rocked back on the balls of his feet and hovered there, staring blankly at his reflection until he no longer recognized it, until it almost looked as though—

_As though it belonged to another person entirely._

Golden eyes glared at him with reckless defiance, and where reflective surfaces usually showed sorry tufts of thinning blond hair, the puddle now depicted thick, healthy locks of jet black sprouting from his scalp. The lips in the water began to twitch, then spread into a snarl. Ven shot up, cursed, and swiftly kicked it so that it rippled away into oblivion.

 _Damn,_ he thought. _What the hell did they do to me in there?_

Severely shaken, he walked home with his head bowed and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

  


For the second night in a row Ventus’s lumpy mattress swallowed him whole. But tonight instead of rainbow lights and sound, he dreamed of the mad, the occult, the demonic. Voices muttering in tongues, speaking backwards. The distant barks of dogs, and the _scritch-scritch-scritch_ of long fingernails, of something living in the walls. He saw his own face distorted by an evil he had no name for, and when he awoke in the bleary, early hours of the morning he found droplets of dried brown blood staining his pillowcase.

_He should have known better than to believe the world had it in itself to grant even a single miracle. Taking a leap of faith on a piece of garbage stuck to the bottom of his foot? How naive was he, really?_

His body, frozen stiff by exhaustion and cold, refused to move from the relative warmth of his bed. And his mind was no better, running itself ragged with self-deprecating thoughts and grand daydreams of ending it once and for all. But after awhile, with an enormous effort he heaved himself upright and hobbled into the bathroom, where he could not quite muster the strength to look himself in the eye.

At one point even this apartment had been a dream, the cracks in the ceiling a roadmap to success. _Everyone starts from something,_ he’d tried to remind himself every evening when he’d first moved here, returning from work in the wee hours of the day only to catch a few moments of sleep before leaving to do it all over again. _This is your something. This is your start. This isn’t the end of your story. This is where it begins._

 _No,_ he thought now, gazing into the muddy dark of the sink’s drain. _Those cracks aren’t a map; they’re a web. I was wrapped up in it the moment I came to this city. The more I tried to deny it, the more tangled I became. And now look at me. I’m losing circulation. May as well surrender, if it’s all the same._

 _If it’s all the same, why not just live, then?_ another voice in his head interjected; eerily familiar, how distinct it was from his own...

Ven’s head shot up. In the mirror staring back at him were those same golden eyes from the night before, brimming with ill intent beneath spikes of black hair. The not-him in the reflection licked its lips and grinned.

 _Someone looks like he’s seen a ghost,_ the voice continued. _Don’t tell me you thought I’d abandoned you. You think you’d be so unlucky? Please. You need me and I need you, idiot. We’re only getting started, you and I._

Before his brain could logic him out of it Ventus threw his fist into the glass, shattering it into a million pieces. To his dismay, the reflection remained behind the broken shards, all the more menacing for its distortion.

 _Oh, no. That looks like it hurts,_ the voice said condescendingly, nodding at Ven’s fist.

“Shut up,” Ven told it. He yanked a faded hand towel from the rack and scowled as he used it to dab the thick blood oozing from his knuckles.

His not-reflection frowned. _Actually, I_ know _it hurts,_ it said. _Unfortunately for me, the terms of that contract also make it so that whatever you feel, I feel, too. If you ask me it’s useless, but apparently it helps you humans feel more secure, since it makes killing you pretty inconvenient… anyway, try not to get yourself into_ too _much trouble, or I might really get angry._

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have nearly given me a heart attack!” Ven hissed. He lifted the towel to check the damage and winced, more at the sight than the pain; deep gashes ran down his fingers and over the back of his hand. A small fragment protruded from a particularly gruesome cut.

 _Shit,_ Ven thought, surveying the mess of broken glass sitting in the sink and scattered across the floor. _If the landlord finds out… I can’t afford to replace this! Stupid, stupid_ —

The voice snorted. _Are you seriously more concerned about the mirror than your hand? Just my luck I get stuck with a self-righteous brat._

Ven watched it roll its eyes, and with a snap of its fingers—even through the splintered reflection, Ven could tell that its hand was bleeding, too, although its blood seemed to come in the form of an inky black that billowed upward like smoke—the mirror repaired itself.

A sharp gasp escaped Ven’s throat. He reached up to run a finger over where the cracks had been, to find no trace of it ever buckling under the force of his punch.

“How did you… ?” he sputtered. The thing in the mirror glared at him, cradling its damaged arm.

 _Forget about it. By the looks of you, you’re probably too stupid to understand anyway,_ it scoffed. _You’re welcome, by the way._

“Thank you!”

_Whatever. Don’t make a habit of it. I don’t like fixing things._

“Can you fix _this_?” Ven asked, holding up his hand.

His doppelganger snarled. _Do I look like an angel?_

Ventus responded with a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know _what_ you are,” he admitted. “A hallucination? A phantom? One of the Fae?”

 _A demon,_ it said.

Ven’s face fell. “A demon?” he repeated. “Of course, I  _had_ thought about that, but… Aren’t you a little—um. I guess I always imagined demons would look more… well, demonic.”

It blinked at him, taken aback. _Your small mind cannot comprehend my true form. Be grateful I choose to appear to you like this instead._

“So bizarre… Why were they trying to summon a demon?” Ven mumbled, more to himself than his strange passenger. “And why did they need us to do it? What happened to everyone else? What happened to _Lea?”_ He looked sharply in its direction, meeting its cold yellow eyes with an equally intense expression. “You know, don’t you?”

 _Of course not,_ it said. _I only heard the call and answered it. They must have known who I was, though, since they asked for me by name and heeded my requirements_ — _but that doesn’t concern you!_

“Requirements?” Ven pressed.

_I’ve had enough of this. Wouldn’t you like to discuss your dreams instead? After all, the clock is ticking. Humans have such precious short lifespans to begin with, and yours? Yours smells even shorter than average… So what do you say? Would you like to get started?_

Ven tucked the previous topic away for another time and tied the towel around his hand with a sturdy knot. The glass in the wound had returned to its place in the mirror, but the wound itself still bled. He pointedly ignored the sting of their shared injury.

“Now that I know you’re a demon, what makes you think I’ll believe anything you say?” he challenged. “Your tricks might have worked on other people, but they won’t work on me.”

The demon cackled. _You should have thought about that_ before _signing your soul away. I already have your signature. You signed willingly. No tricks. Just a mutual exchange of services. Everything’s perfectly above board; for the rest of your natural lifespan, I’m yours to command. Unfortunately._

Ven cocked an eyebrow, the picture of mischief. He braced his hands on his hips and said, “Then I command you: bring me a tin of Turkish delight. Rose-flavored.”

 _Snap._ An ornate box of clear, glittering crystal hung suspended in the air before Ven’s very eyes. _If this truly was a hallucination, it was a damn good one. Perhaps madness suited him after all._ He reached for it, trembling slightly, and removed the lid to find each individual treat exquisitely wrapped in wax paper. Hesitant, he glanced at the demon in the mirror as if to ask permission. 

 _Taste it,_ the demon told him, but Ven shook his head and prodded the box in the demon’s direction.

“You first,” he said. “I insist.”

 _You insult me. Do you think I have the stomach for the repugnant slop you mortals call food? Return to me when you have dined upon the souls of those seasoned with corruption, flavored with sin_ — _why are you looking at me like that?!_

Ventus hadn’t even noticed the grin that parted his lips until the demon drew attention to it. He snuffed it out, embarrassed.

“I must be dreaming,” he murmured.

 _What a pathetic dream it would be if you were!_ said the demon. _If you’re content to wish your life away on sweets, be my guest. But I chose you because you seemed interesting, so I’d rather you don’t let me down. So, remind me: what is it that you desire?_

“I want to put on a show,” Ven began. He spoke slowly, searching for the right words and allowing the dream to grow once more in his mind’s eye, to see it as clearly as he had years ago, before the paint had chipped from his imagination, before the colors had faded. “I want to put on a show the likes of which the world’s never seen. I want to bring joy to people in every city, in every country. I want the very mention of its name to bring a smile to their faces!”

_Were you planning to do that all by yourself? Don’t make me laugh. You’ll need performers and stagehands, of course. It’s been awhile since I came topside, but I don’t think humans these days find much entertainment in a good beheading. What are you planning to do?_

Ventus snapped his fingers, his face aglow with ideas. “Hold auditions!” he announced. “But I need a way to pay them for their time…”

_Done and done. Name the time and place._

“Next Friday! And anywhere, as long as it can hold a hundred, no, five hundred people!”

At that, a storm of full-color fliers advertising AUDITIONS in bright yellow typeface exploded from the ceiling, flooding the small bathroom and overflowing into the bedroom. Giddiness made Ventus’s head spin; if it was a daydream it was a beautiful one, and, _oh,_ he never wanted it to end!

 _You’ll need this._ The demon’s growl was just audible over the cacophony of flapping paper. A small, round object appeared in Ven’s hand. He found a small clasp and flipped it open to find it was a pocket mirror and, staring back at him in lieu of his own reflection, was the demon. _I can talk to you whenever,_ it told him, _but I’ve found you humans prefer to speak face-to-face. So keep this with you, at least until I can summon enough power to materialize._

“Thank you,” Ven said earnestly. “Demon or not, I appreciate the help.”

At that, the demon only smirked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise update! this chapter was meant to be longer, if you can imagine that. i decided to break off the end and put it at the beginning of the next chapter instead. anyway it always struck me as rather funny the way ven (and really all the kingdom hearts crew) seems to take new information in stride. so if he's not particularly nonplussed by the fact that "surprise! demons exist, and you're tied to one, now", that's why. also dialogue in this au is difficult? not that i'm being anything resembling historically accurate here though LOL. 
> 
> as for some more quick notes, ven is 20 here, and lea is around 21/22. yes, vanitas tells ven his name eventually. he also starts speaking with easier to read "quotation marks" instead of _confusing italics_ soon enough.
> 
> this fic might actually end up longer than i intended it to be, which is saying something as i didn't intend it to be as long as it already is.


	4. The Role Of A Lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: a character asserts that the world would be better off without certain other characters

_A web_ , the demon mused. Weightless and shapeless, he floated in the air above his human’s sleeping form. _What a weird way to see your own home. With all the ways these stupid humans manage to ensnare themselves in webs of their own making, sometimes I almost…_

But he shook his head before he could finish the thought. _Don’t be absurd. If they all saw how much freedom they really have, us demons would be out of a job._

A mere handful of hours had passed since his human had succumbed to slumber, abandoning him to the dull grey night, but his own ensuing restlessness had made quick work of bombarding his mind with twitching, agitated thoughts. In his quest to return to Earth for the first time in over a hundred years, the demon had all but forgotten how monotonous the care and keeping of a human could be: the endless hours he and his brethren sacrificed to abject boredom; the endless, futile bargaining, begging; the endless mundane and often downright puerile requests they suffered in pursuit of even a single soul. 

But one did not fall so far from grace (a relative term; he was, after all, a _demon)_ as he had without first attaining grace enough to fall from. And one did not attain as much grace in the first place without learning a few tricks along the way. There was no room in his hollowed-out chest cavity for a heart, much less _guilt_ over his deceit. The boy who dreamed beneath him had boasted cognizance of the various deceptions a demon might employ, yet his naivety had blinded him enough to sign the contract without reading the fine print in the first place. 

_And was that the demon’s fault? Well?_

_Could a sheep fault a wolf for its hunger?_

It was the natural hierarchy, the age-old way of things. Imagining the boy’s dismay upon discovering his ruse brought him pure, unadulterated joy. Imagining his features descending into despair as he struggled in vain to deter the inevitable, as his passion effortlessly evolved into hatred, as misery wound him like a dying music box—it all made the demon giddy with anticipation, and that even neglected to mention the power he would receive if and when his gambit paid off! And then at last, returning home triumphant upon the death of his host, he would repay his debts and regain all that he had lost. 

So let the boy play at carnivals and parades. Let him rule the world, for all he cared! Because, in the end—

“Are you still here…?” his human mumbled. Exhaustion thickened his voice. 

Taken aback, the demon considered not answering in the hopes that the boy might drift back to sleep. But the boy sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked around the room despite the fact that he could not, would not perceive the demon in his current state. 

 _Obviously,_ the demon said after a moment. _Where else would I be? If you haven’t noticed, you can’t exactly get rid of me._

“I’ve noticed,” the boy replied. He had stopped scanning the room and settled his eyes on the spot where the demon hovered invisibly. The intensity of his gaze would have sent a shiver down the demon’s spine had he been able to materialize one. He could not see the demon, should not have even been able to guess at his position, and yet the demon could not deny the uncanny accuracy with which the boy had pinpointed his location. The demon pushed the thought aside.

 _If you woke up only to bore me with small talk,_ he said, _don’t._

“No, no, it’s not that. I just woke up, and then I realized that I never even asked for your name. Do you—do you _have_ one?” 

 _Of_ course _I do. We all do. Whether or not we remember them…_

The boy folded his knees to his chest and rested his chin atop them. Tousled blonde hair spilled across his forehead. “Then tell me!” he pleaded. 

 _It’s—_ the demon began, then stopped abruptly. So simple a request with so simple an answer; there was no reason for a demon to refrain from sharing their name with a human. In fact, the knowledge of a name often seemed to help their hosts become more comfortable with them, “humanize” them, in a way. _So why…?_

“It’s…?” the boy prompted. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me! If you don’t want to. But it kinda feels more fair that way, don’t you think?”

_I’m a demon. Do you think whether or not it’s “fair” would persuade me one way or the other?_

“Fair enough. I’d still like to know.” 

… _What I was going to say was, it’s none of your business, actually,_ the demon muttered, but in truth he was wracking his brain, rifling through the time-yellowed pages of his memory in search of the name he’d used once upon a stable identity. Hell’s dependence on telepathy brought with it myriad benefits, but relying solely on such an intimate means of communication for centuries must have eroded his sense of self, must have allowed him the luxury of forgetting his own name…

“But I still need to call you _something_ ,” the boy told him. Had disappointment flickered across his features for a wink just then, or had the demon simply imagined it? The boy snapped his fingers, allowing him no time to dwell. “Aha! I’ve got it. I’ll just call you Lucifer. That’s a demon name.” 

_Damn the contract! I’ll kill you right now if you do!_

The boy folded his arms across his chest and slumped down in the bed. “Then at least give me something! Please.” 

_Every time I think, ‘humans can’t get any uglier,’ one of them starts pouting at me and I change my mind._

The demon glanced over at the window sill, where his human had left the pocket mirror open to face the dark streets below. _As if he thought I was confined to the glass. Ridiculous,_ he thought to himself. Still, the gesture showed a great deal of thoughtfulness, a consideration for others unusual in even the most tenderhearted humans. The demon had chosen his prey wisely. This warm, unfinished soul would simmer nicely under pressure. And he counted his nonexistent blessings for having caught this boy at the perfect time, _perhaps mere hours before his soul would have…_

 _Vanitas,_ he said suddenly, once again training his gaze on his human. _It’s not my true name, but that’s what you’ll call me._

“Vanitas?” the boy repeated. “That’s… kind of a weird name…”

_Watch your mouth! I won’t take criticisms from the one whose name is ‘Ventus’._

Ventus tilted his head back when he laughed. “So you _do_ remember my name! I probably told you before, but just ‘Ven’ is fine. Nice to meet you, Vanitas!” 

 _Is it?_ the demon challenged, but Ventus had already cocooned himself in the covers once more, and if he was not yet fast asleep, then he was a great actor. 

The exchanging of names did indeed allow their human hosts to develop a deeper sense of empathy for them, which, as with every other tool at the demons’ disposal, could be used against them, weaponized. But there was a flip side to that as well, one which fed directly into the greatest taboo of all: could a demon not just as easily fall prey to the pitfalls of understanding, even stoop so far as to feel _pity_ for their human wards? He had witnessed firsthand how his kind were not exempt from compassion, and how that compassion could lead to lapses in judgment with disastrous, far-reaching side effects. 

They were fools, of course, those few demons who had traded power and glory for the mayfly lifespan of a human being. Complete, utter fools. Their well-placed lied, their devious plans were all for naught if they themselves became too involved, became ensnared by their own traps. They didn’t _deserve_ to survive.

 _A web,_ the demon mused. _That’s right. The spider doesn’t pity the fly for its own shortsightedness. The spider only weaves the web, and then it waits._

 

**A WEEK LATER: AUDITION DAY**

 

Ventus peered out from behind the curtain. Close to tears, he surveyed the crowd of around fifty prospective acts, all chatting animatedly with hope spilling from their lips and laughter rolling from their tongues. Despite the requisite electric thrum of nerves and apprehension present in any audition setting, the attendees also moved throughout the room with an almost uncanny ease, their every action accompanied by an ethereal warmth for one another that turned Ven’s stomach inside out. If he had known, even an hour ago, that this many people would have shown up to present their talents for _his_ show, he would have been over the moon with joy. 

But as it were, all he felt was nausea. 

He stepped backwards in a daze, anger and confusion peeling from his damaged thoughts like skin from a sunburn. With his jaw set firm and flecks of resolution threaded through his clear eyes, he flipped open the pocket mirror. 

“No,” he told the demon staring back at him. “I won’t do what you’re asking me to do. I _can’t.”_

 _You don’t exactly have a choice in the matter,_ Vanitas responded, flicking his tongue between rows of teeth sharpened to unnatural points. _That is, unless you choose to give up on your dream..._

“It’s not fair!” Ven hissed. “Why didn’t you tell me before?!” 

 _Like you would have agreed to it if I had!_ said Vanitas. _Besides, it wasn’t even a few days ago that you told me how these kinds of tricks don’t work on you. You said it yourself: you see through everything. Isn’t that right?_

To that, Ven had no response. Agitated, he snapped the mirror shut and leaned against the wall, feeling sick to his stomach and breathing heavily as his body bore the hurricane force of the million contradicting voices thundering through his mind. 

If success demanded sacrifices, sacrifices would have to be made. It was as simple as that. There was no hidden trail, no secret way around, no compromise with Hell. And the cause _was_ noble. Ven reminded himself of that, pinned it at the forefront of his thoughts. _The cause was noble, and it was worth this._  

Although this particular sacrifice wasn’t his to make, he would make it anyway. 

_After all, it wasn’t as though he had a choice in the matter._

Not a moment passed before Terra ducked through the curtain to join him. Ven hastily shoved the mirror into his back pocket and willed himself into what he hoped would pass for a natural stance. 

“Terra!” he exclaimed. “I thought you were out front with Aqua.” 

“I was!” Terra said. “I just came back to check on you. Is everything alright?” As with all his emotions he wore his concern plainly; his eyes darted around the stage, narrowed by a frown. “I thought I heard you arguing with someone—“

“No!” Ven cut in. “No, don’t worry! I guess I’m just a little nervous. There are a lot of people out there...”

 _And you’re going to let every single one of them down, whether they make the cut or not,_ snarled the demon. Ven gritted his teeth to keep from wincing, grateful that he alone could hear its insidious whispers. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got stage fright!” Terra laughed. He strode over to rest a hand on Ven’s shoulder in a gesture that Ven had once found endearing, even comforting; now he withered under the weight of it.

“Maybe,” Ven said. “I guess I never expected my dream to come true, and now it’s starting to, and I don’t even know how I feel about it.”

“But this is what you always wanted,” Terra reminded him.

 _I know. That’s what scares me,_ Ven thought. But when he smiled up at Terra it was genuine, if only because Terra’s simplistic worldview and straightforward advice had always been able to tame his racing thoughts. 

“I should probably get out there, then,” Ven said at last. 

Terra sent him off with one last pat on the back. “You’ll be fine!” he said, and Ven nodded over his shoulder before disappearing through the curtain.

 

**A WEEK AGO**

 

_“‘We Want Weird?!’” Sora exclaimed. Never one to leave a colorful object untouched, he had plucked the advertisement from a grime-encrusted wall; by some miracle, despite the recent onslaught of storms upon the area, the paper flier remained in pristine condition. Sora sprung up on the balls of his feet and waved it in front of his friends’ faces. “That’s us! We’re weird, aren’t we? Hey!”_

_“Hey, yourself! Slow down,” Riku told him, snatching it away to see for himself. Wheezing with the effort of carrying such a heavy burden on her back, Kairi paused to set the cumbersome box on the ground and began to read over his shoulder._

_“Looks like… some kind of audition?” she said once she caught her breath. “Who’s running it?”_

_Sora shrugged. “Maybe it’s that Hayner guy! That would be fun. I bet they pay well, too. Y’know, I heard his dad’s a—“_

_“Can’t be him,” Riku cut in with a snort. “There’s no way he’d risk his reputation recruiting ‘weird’ acts. Besides, they employ dancers, actors. Not”—he made a sweeping gesture over their little group—“whatever we are.”_

_“It can’t hurt to go see what it’s all about,” Kairi said. “Look at us… it’s not like we have anything to lose.”_

_Riku crossed his arms. “And what if it’s some kind of a scam. What then?”_

_“We’ll be one step ahead!” Sora assured him. “You can’t be scammed if you’re expecting it!”_

_“Sora, someone could look you directly in the eye and tell you they were scamming you, and you’d still let them.”_

_Kairi heaved an exaggerated sigh and smoothed a damp lock of sweat-matted hair from her eyes. “If you’re done teasing each other, I think we should go,” she said. “Well, we have next Friday to think about it, but it sounds interesting! Maybe it’d be a good way to make some friends, too, since we just got here.” She glanced sidelong at the unassuming wooden box, half the height of an average grown human but almost as heavy as one. “Besides, it’s been too long since we danced together.”_

_Riku’s expression softened to a degree that would have been imperceptible to anyone outside their circle of three, but to Sora and Kairi he might as well have voiced an enthusiastic endorsement of their plan._

_“Fine,” he relented. “But I’m not going to audition. I’m sure they need help behind the scenes, too.”_

_Sora pouted. “You’re no fun.”_

_“People like it better when you perform alone anyway.”_

_“What?! Not true! Come on, Riku! You don’t even have to accept it if you get it! Just try! Pleeeease?”_

_Ignoring him, Riku turned and began to walk. Sora shook his head and wordlessly slipped the straps of the wooden box over his shoulders. Arm in arm with Kairi, he tensed his muscles to ease the strain on his back as they strolled along._

_“He’ll come around,” Kairi whispered. “He always does.”_

_Sora raised an eyebrow, and she winked at him to drive home the point. He quickly looked away._

_“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “He’d better!”_

 

**PRESENT**

 

They had been the first to arrive—a detail which Riku took to mean “clearly a trap”, but which Sora and Kairi reassured him simply meant “too early”—and had whittled away the time playing a card game on the steps outside the old abandoned theatre.

Frustrated by yet another loss, Sora tossed his hand into the air, causing the cards to rain down in a flurry.  “I don’t get it!” he whined. “Riku always wins!” 

“Guess I’m just better than you,” Riku said.

“Actually, Sora, this deck—“ Kairi began, but at that moment another motley crew shuffled up, and Riku collected the fallen cards with pursed lips and the occasional glare shot in Kairi’s direction.

They chose to lose themselves to increasingly wild speculations about the nature of the auditions and the company—or the _single man_ , Riku reminded them—behind it until the doors opened and the growing crowd trickled inside. 

Remnants of the theatre's former glory revealed themselves to those who knew what to look for, and Riku marveled at the tarnished statues and threadbare carpeting, for even in their decay they retained a sense of undying dignity. _The same couldn’t be said for much else in this world._

The assembly filed into the main auditorium, conversing amongst themselves until someone stumbled out from behind the curtain, and all went still in anticipation.

The boy on stage brushed an invisible speck of dust from his fitted suit. As he trembled ever so slightly in the orange glow of a flickering spotlight _(how had they managed to run electricity into the dilapidated old building?),_ the shadows beneath his sunken cheekbones and hollowed eyes gave him an eerie, otherworldly appearance. He looked how Riku might have pictured the ghouls described in the old penny dreadfuls he used to read, back when he could spare a cent.

“He looks friendly!” Sora whispered. 

Riku snorted. “He looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. And where’s all this money coming from? This is suspicious.”

Kairi leaned over and pinched his elbow. “We can’t _afford_ to be suspicious,” she said. 

“If you ask me, suspicion is all we _can_ afford,” Riku replied, and then their host cleared his throat.

The boy produced a stack of weathered notecards from his coat pocket and shuffled through them with a frown. An awkward tension draped itself over the crowd. After a moment he began to stumble over what Riku assumed to be cue cards in a voice far too low for the size of the auditorium, and someone near the back shouted for him to speak up.

So the boy exhaled, pocketed the cards, and began again.

“Thank you,” he said, “for coming out here today. I appreciate it! My name is Ventus. Um.” He paused, glancing up at the balcony above the seating area as if for reassurance from God himself. Riku glanced over his shoulder as well, but found no God there, only two people dressed in expensive clothes and encouraging grins. _Parents? Siblings? Friends? Perhaps they were the wallets behind this boy’s fever dream._

The boy continued, “As… some of you might already know, my great-uncle passed away recently, and he left me his fortune… He couldn’t care for me, and I-I grew up in an orphanage, so… I didn’t really know him. It’s always been my dream to put on a big show, to transport people to another world for awhile, so thank you for wanting to be a part of this. I look forward to seeing your talents. Thank you. Let’s get started. And, um, I’ll be around to answer any questions, too…”

He bowed, almost as an afterthought, and invited the first group on stage with a wave of his hand before darting back behind the curtain.

“You first,” Kairi said. She nudged the boys in the direction of the stage. Riku looked his reluctance in her direction but she only smiled in reply, and before he could open his mouth to protest Sora had grabbed a fistful of his shirt and all but dragged him behind the curtain. 

The setup was plain _(suspiciously so,_ Riku thought): a small, cobwebbed piano, a wooden table, a wooden chair, a clipboard, a pen, some ink, and, perplexingly, a pocket mirror facing the area of stage open to performers. Ventus sat with his back rigid and his hands folded on the tabletop. If Sora noticed anything out of the ordinary, however, he played at obliviousness with the expertise of a professional actor.

“Hello!” he said with his trademark cheer. “I’m Sora, and I’m an acrobat! This guy here is Riku”—he jabbed a thumb in Riku’s direction—“and he’s an acrobat too.”

Riku’s eyes widened. He set his jaw, shook his head, and drew a finger across his throat in a motion that could have been interpreted as a threat on _Ventus’s_ life, _Sora’s_ life, or both. Sora shot him a warning look before turning back to Ventus and shrugging an apology on Riku’s behalf. 

“Sorry,” he said. “He’s a little shy. _Riku!”_

“Er,” Riku said, “thanks, but I’d rather stay behind the scenes.”

“Well, we need all the help we can get,” Ventus assured him. Riku swore he looked forlorn for a split second as he jotted down a few scratchy notes, but Sora allowed him no time to dwell on the implications of their host’s passing melancholy, if it had in fact been there at all.

“Riku, you promised!” Sora whined. “Remember?” 

Riku looked from Sora’s pout to Ventus’s placid, unreadable expression, then back to Sora again. He could feel his cheeks growing warm under the combined weight of their expectations; _was he really so stubborn as to stand his own selfish ground when both his best friend and a stranger had placed their hopes in him?_ He pursed his lips, but nodded once. 

“Fine! You win,” he told Sora. “Let’s do _that one routine.”_

Sora paled. _“That one?_ But Riku! We’ve never—“

“We’ll be fine. Let’s believe in each other.” 

“…Right!”

To the side, Ventus laughed. “You two must be good friends!” he said. “The way you talk… It reminds me of—“ But he stopped, went quiet, and the same forlorn cloud passed over his face. He hastily continued, “Well, I’m excited to see what you can do!”

“Do you play?” Riku asked, tilting his head in the direction of the piano. 

It took a moment for Ventus to process what he was asking _(he seems nervous,_ Riku noted, _or… distracted?),_ but then the realization dawned on him visibly. “Oh! I can accompany you, if you’d like!” he said. 

“Something slow, then.” 

Ventus slid onto the piano bench. He flexed his fingers and paused in thought for a moment before he curled them against the ivory keys and drew from the strings a doleful, haunting melody that Riku had never heard before yet struck him as strangely familiar, as though the notes had been impressed upon his soul at some point before it had entered his body. Riku had not been aware of his rapid pulse until the music began to calm it. 

“Ready?” he said. 

“Ready,” Sora affirmed. 

They had spent the past few months developing the act in question with what little free time they could find. Over the years Riku had shied away from duo acts for numerous reasons he refused to disclose, but with enough hassling (not very much at all), Sora had convinced him to join him in one last set together: a mesmerizing display of their best qualities, Sora’s superhuman flexibility and Riku’s graceful strength. But they had never been able to showcase it, for each time their short set reached its climax, a particularly difficult move involving balance, strength, and a great deal of unspoken trust, Riku always faltered at the pivotal second, causing them to collapse in a tangle of limbs and, more often than not, bruises. They could have elected to perform one of their previous two-person sets, of course, but if Sora _insisted_ on trying out as a duo, then they would have to prove to both Ventus and each other that they were capable of upping the ante.

The beginning went off without a hitch as it always had, and Riku steadied his breath against the smooth 3/4 time of Ventus’s somber waltz. In this partnership he was Sora’s rock, Sora’s anchor as he contorted and twisted his body into impossible positions with no choice other than to trust Riku to prevent them both from falling. As they moved around each other like fluid made flesh, unyielding trust apparent in the tightening of every muscle, the twitch of every finger, Riku cleared his mind of doubts and focused only on the tune emanating from the too-bright piano. He relinquished ownership of his body to the music, let it move for him. At last they reached their final move, and Riku centered himself, and he closed his eyes, and he held Sora aloft as easy as breathing, and then he lowered him back down and allowed his lungs to pant the way they wanted to.

“Wait, we—we did it?!” Sora gasped. “Riku, we actually—oh, no! Kairi’s going to be so upset that she missed it!” 

Riku sunk into a half-squat with his hands resting on his knees. “I… think she’ll be proud, not disappointed,” he said. 

Ventus abruptly cut the song off and stood to clap for them. “I’ve never seen anything like that!” he exclaimed. “Would you… be interested in working with me?”

The two acrobats exchanged a glance. 

“Can we have some time to consider it?” Riku asked. 

Ventus traced his index finger over the curve of the open mirror on the table so absently Riku wasn’t sure if he was aware that he was doing it. “Of course,” Ventus told them. “But I’d be happy to have you, if you agree.”

“We’d be happy to—“ Sora started, but Riku clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Thank you,” he said, and this time it was he who dragged Sora through the curtain.

__

“How’d it go?” Kairi asked when they reappeared. 

“Sora was amazing,” Riku told her, and at the same time Sora was saying, “Riku _actually_ held me up this time!” 

Kairi just laughed and tapped them both on the tips of their noses. “I’m so proud of you!” she said. Riku looked sidelong at Sora and smirked. He opened his mouth to say more, but Ventus popped out and waved Kairi over with all the starry-eyed enthusiasm of a child with a secret. 

She patted the wooden box resting on the ground beside her. 

“I think I might be a little nervous,” she confessed. “It’s been awhile.” 

“You’ll be fine,” Riku said. “Ask him to play the same waltz he played for us. There’s something about it…”

“I will.” Determination sparking in her blue eyes, Kairi grinned at her two best friends and stooped down to shoulder the heavy box. Before either of them could offer to help, she said, “Please, it’s only a few steps. I carry this everywhere. I think I can manage.” 

She stood with some effort and steeled herself beneath its weight. Though it was true she had carried it through city after city, across borders and over hills, it had never become any less cumbersome. She groaned as she heaved it up the few steps to the stage, then set it down and pushed it the rest of the way, until she, the box, and Ventus were alone behind the curtain. 

“And what’s your name?” Ventus asked, his pen poised at the ready. Kairi straightened her back and flicked a stray piece of lint from her dance clothes. _She’d always dreamed of being on a stage like this; despite the dust that haunted every candelabra, every faded backdrop, the scuffs marks on the unpolished stage floor, her heart leapt with glee._

 _“Our_ names,” she said, rapping on the box with hardened knuckles, “are Kairi and Xion.”

Ventus furrowed his brow. “Our?” he repeated. “Where’s the other…?”

Kairi met his concerned expression with a secretive smile. She felt around the back of the box and pressed the hidden button there. Instantly the top of the box popped open and the sides fell away with a soft thud. In the box, folded in on itself in a position impossible even by the standards of Sora’s flexibilitly, sat a strange, lifelike doll. In the lowlight her seams were difficult to discern; skin made of porcelain and clothes fit for a real girl (certainly nicer than the tattered grey dress that Kairi wore) obscured the clockwork beneath. In fact from the front she looked heartbreakingly human: perhaps a bit stiff, but human nonetheless. It was only when one turned her round and set eyes on the massive wind-up key protruding from her back that one might even begin to question her humanity.

And, of course, she could not talk. But when wound, she could dance. Always the same routine from start to finish; once she began, nothing could keep her from seeing it through to the end. And when she was done she would kneel down and fold into herself again, never smiling, never frowning, never complaining, time and time again. All that remained of her father’s memory, Kairi loved the doll as a sister, had vowed to care for and protect her as family. 

“Xion,” Kairi said, leaning down to turn the key. “Let’s dance.” 

Ventus scribbled something down, then returned to the piano and took up the same tune he had used to accompany Riku and Sora. On the first note the doll stood, looked around, curtsied. Kairi curtsied back. While Riku and Sora’s theatrics drew the attention of passers-by when they performed for money on the streets, it was this perfectly choreographed exchange between Kairi and Xion that kept them spellbound. But of course the charm wore off, as Xion knew just the one routine; in each place they visited their appeal quickly faded, and the public carried on in search of their next fleeting fancy. 

 _If only I could find someone who could teach her another dance,_ Kairi had often thought. _We could spend twice as much time in one place before moving on…_

But this was the dance Xion knew, and so Kairi knew it, too, knew it so intimately that even on their darkest, hungriest nights when her body forgot how to sleep, even how to breathe, she could still dance. 

They danced their flawless clockwork duet, playfully leaping across the stage, spinning each other around, using each other to keep their balance. As a child Kairi had begged to dance with her, but her father had not allowed her to even try until she could perform the dance without a single mistake.

 _“If you make even one misstep,”_ he had warned her, _“she could fall, and then she would break. She might look like just a doll, but she is truly irreplaceable.”_

So she had practiced diligently, working late into the night until she fell asleep at the barre, and soon enough she had earned the right to dance with the doll. Xion had no feelings, no heart but a whirring mass of gears and spinning dials, and therefore she could not trust, but each time they danced Kairi feared she would fail her, breaking not only the doll’s fragile body but her faith in Kairi as well. Because each time they danced Kairi swore she felt the echoes of pulse twitch beneath the doll’s porcelain skin, the soft sigh of breath against her neck as she spun her in the air, and here and there, a whisper…

As the last notes of Ventus’s melody twinkled in the air, the dance came to a end. The doll curtsied, knelt, folded. Kairi scooped her up in her arms and placed her back inside the box, reassuring her they would dance again soon. 

“That was incredible,” Ventus breathed. “What… what _is_ she?” 

“She’s an automaton my father created,” Kairi said. She brushed a pesky lock of hair from her eyes. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Ventus’s cheeks flushed with color. “She is.” 

For a moment they said nothing. Kairi leaned against the box awaiting an answer, while Ventus stared into middle space with his head cocked to one side as though listening to the silence. Then he said, “O-of course, I’d be happy to have you… I can pay well, and your act is… just amazing…” 

“And my friends?” Kairi asked without missing a beat. “What about them?”

“I already asked them, and they said they’d think about it…”

“We’re joining.” 

Ventus blinked. “Well, then, you can go backstage while I see the rest of the acts, and then I’ll draw up the three contracts, but shouldn’t you—“

“They were just waiting for me to pass before they said ‘yes’. Trust me. I’ll go get them now! We should wait in the back?”

“Backstage,” Ventus said. “Through the doors there, behind me.” He motioned to an unassuming door painted to blend in with the brick, then shook his head, smiled. “But I’m sure someone as talented as you knows their way around a theatre.”

Kairi simply laughed. “You’d be surprised,” she told him. “Thank you so much. Maybe it sounds silly, but we could all use a few big dreams right now.”

Before Ventus could respond she darted away, with a hushed assurance to Xion that she would return in a matter of seconds.

 

 

 _Of all things—!_  the demon growled.  _You_ would _manage to sign on a lifeless puppet. Do you see a little bit of yourself in those empty eyes, Ventus?_

Vanitas’s words were pure vitriol. He had torn into the first two acts with all the rabid violence of those self-proclaimed “critics” plaguing the papers as of late, and it was all Ven could do to grit his teeth and ignore the vile insults dripping into his ears. Now, alone for a blessed moment, Ven spoke to him in as stern a tone as he could manage without raising his voice. 

“Don’t you ever shut up?” he said, dangerously close to _pleading._ “I’m still trying to work through what you said this morning. You aren’t making this any easier!”

The demon cackled. _On the contrary,_ he replied. _I’m trying my best to help you feel better about your decision by pointing out how pathetic these so-called ‘talents’ have been so far. Take that ragtag group of lowlifes, for example. Sure, they might bring a smile to someone’s face. Just like you wanted, right? But when they’re gone someday, the world will move on fast. Really, I’m doing you—and them—a great service. At least in death, you’ll be worth something._

“Shut up,” Ven said again. “Don’t… talk like that.”

But the demon continued; he was imagining it, of course, but Ven sometimes believed he could feel the heat of its breath against his collar when it spoke directly into his ear.

_Just like all those people at the house where we were introduced, you and I. A shame I couldn’t claim their souls, but the world’s a little better off—_

Overcome by a flash of white rage, Ven slammed his shin against the leg of the piano. Tears pricked at his eyes in pain; he gave a shout and knelt to rub at the already forming bruise. But Vanitas yelped, too, which was enough to twist Ven’s dry lips into something resembling a smirk.

“I told you to shut up,” he hissed. 

Vanitas had no response.

 

**SAME DAY, ELSEWHERE**

****

 

Lea awoke in a dimly lit room, dressed in different clothes from the dirty shirt and dirtier slacks he’d been wearing before. Soft fabric fell against his skin; his scalp, devoid of grease and soot, felt alien in its cleanliness.

“Look who finally decided to wake up,” a familiar voice announced from the shadowed doorway. “I get that you need your beauty sleep, but really, a whole _week?”_

“A _week_ —Where am I?! And where’s everyone else?” Lea demanded to know. The world had somehow realigned its orbit with his head at the center; everything spun around it.

Braig stepped into a puddle of moonlight formed by a dusty silver beam shining in through a small open window. He had traded the ceremonial cloak for a more casual attire, perhaps in an attempt to appear less menacing, but with how incongruent the look was with his intimidating personality, it only seemed to have the opposite effect. _A wolf didn’t stop being a wolf just because it wore sheepskin. Didn’t the fact that it could disguise itself only serve to make it a greater threat? That was the whole point of that story, wasn’t it?_

“Same place you were before, kid,” Braig said. “Just a little higher up than the rest of ‘em. You can leave if you want. Door’s wide open.”

Lea narrowed his eyes. “Right. No offense, but you folks don’t really seem like the type who’d do something out of the goodness of their hearts.”

“No, really. Walk out that door. No skin off my teeth. But before you go, let me tell you: if I were you I might think twice. If I cared about my friend, that is.”

“…And there it is. The catch,” Lea sighed. “I’m surprised your fingers haven’t turned blue and fallen off yet, since it seems like you have so many people wrapped around them.” He stretched, lanky arms extended skyward, before relaxing again. “But I’ll bite. So? What’s the deal with all the sneaking around and the creepy black cloaks? Don’t tell me it’s just for the aesthetics.”

Braig laughed. “You’re not bad, kid. You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. Believe it or not, the Boss didn’t choose black just ‘cause it flatters his figure. Nah, it was part of the ceremony.”

“The ceremony?” Lea asked, quirking an eyebrow in the universal language of doubt. “What is this, some kind of cult? I might have to draw the line at cults.”

“A cult? As if! We’re just a group of like-minded individuals gathered together in pursuit of a common goal.” He spoke as though reciting an oath, or reading from a script. “But unfortunately someone ran off with something very, very valuable to us. And now we have to go and get it back. Or, well, we were hoping _you_ might do that for us.”

Lea feared his muscles might freeze in a permanently quizzical expression if he maintained it any longer, but nothing Braig revealed made him any less wary. “Why me? I’m just an ordinary kid.” 

“Because we have it on good authority that our little thief might be more inclined to trust _you.”_

“Who would—no, wait. Don’t tell me—that guy from before? _Ventus?!”_

Braig scratched at the bridge of his nose. “Now you’re getting it.” 

“Look,” Lea said. He yanked away the sheets and planted his feet on the floor, slowly steadying himself as he tested his balance for the first time in a week. Braig made no move to assist him, only watched with his trademark sly smile as Lea continued, “I’m not anyone’s errand boy. I’d love to hear what your ‘Boss’ has to say, but I’m not interested in getting mixed up in all this supernatural mumbo-jumbo. So thanks, but I’m gonna keep looking.”

”So you’re running away, huh. Don’t you think Isa would be disappointed to hear that you gave up on him just like that?”

What little color had occupied Lea’s face beforehand now drained away, leaving his skin a sickly greenish hue not even the moonlight could flatter. 

“…Where the _hell_  did you hear that name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is very much a "moving things forward" chapter, which is why there's so much going on; i don't know why it was so difficult to write but i adore that feeling when everything FINALLY locks into place and i GET IT DONE. the time period/setting of this piece is intentionally vague because i'm lazy as he'll but i guess riku both uses modern slang AND references penny dreadfuls so i suppose make of that what you will. there wasn't much vanitas/ventus interaction this chapter? but at least we get a little bit of lore/hints at background. i am planning to go back and edit this as a whole once it's finished, since i can sense that it's a bit of a hot mess. thank you so much for all the comments & well-wishes since i've been sick all week ;-; you guys really motivate me!!
> 
> for questions/comments/queries, hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/aubadechild). update schedule now officially demoted from "THURSDAYS!" to "weekly... but WATCH OUT"


	5. Sheepskin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> { warnings: mild ableist language }

Out of the approximately fifty people who had gathered at the theatre to audition, only a handful had legitimate acts to perform. The rest either confessed that their curiosity had driven them to attend, or that they were looking to make a quick buck with cheap tricks. In the end Ventus had asked ten people if they would be interested in joining. Two disappeared before he could get them to sign, and then there were eight. By far the most compelling acts belonged to the two male acrobats and the strange girl with her stranger dancing doll, but the other five boasted no shortage of their own abilities, from tightrope walking to beast-taming (the beast in question resembled more of a flea-bitten cat, but Ventus had been assured that the skill was transferable to even the most ferocious of creatures. He had squeezed the mirror in his pocket and heard the demon exhale in exasperation as the joke landed).

“So,” he said, wringing his hands in front of the ragtag crew of new recruits. “Um. Well! I’m happy with this turnout. I’ll just have you sign a few things for me.”

He produced the stack of contracts that Vanitas had so graciously drawn up the night before and handed them out to each of the successful auditioners. With a forced smile on his face he offered them pens, pointed them toward the dotted line at the bottom and asked them to sign. What was contained in the fine print froze his very marrows, that single sentence that bound them to him in inexplicable, otherworldly ways. _At least they’ll be worth something in the afterlife—_ the sentiment Vanitas had expressed earlier echoed in his ears. Ven clenched his jaw. 

Pens scratched over parchment as Ven paced back and forth, keeping a watchful eye on the small assembly. Sora had signed immediately, his name a disastrous scrawl of looping lines punctuated by a legally-binding smiley face that would have been endearing had it not been so damning. Kairi scanned the document but signed anyway, as did the others. All but Riku, who took his time in reading through it, furrowing his brow and frowning at the text. A cold sweat dripped down Ven’s neck. 

_Oh, please,_ Vanitas whispered. _Spare me your misplaced pity. If you had cared in the first place, you wouldn’t have let a single one of them sign. And there’s no way he can decipher the true meaning of that line. I made certain of that. So your conscience can rest easy, Ventus. That is, if you had one in the first place—_

Ven squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his lip with enough violence to draw blood. It didn’t elicit much of a reaction from the demon, but it did shut him up. Riku looked up suddenly, his cool eyes studying the grimace Ven had donned. 

“Are you alright?” Riku asked. “You look a bit pale.”

“Yes, thanks,” Ven responded curtly. “Do you have any questions?” 

“No, nothing. I haven’t signed many contracts in my life, but it always feels like I’m signing my soul away, you know?” He paused, tapped the tip of his pen against the table. Then he chuckled to himself. “Maybe it’s naive of me to say this, but… you look like the honest type. Even if you _do_ seem a little in over your head.” 

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment?” Ven laughed. 

“That’s about as close to one as you’ll get from Riku,” Kairi chimed in. 

Sora nodded sagely. “He might look tough, but he’s pretty soft. Right, Riku?” 

The wrinkles on Riku’s brow might as well have spelled out _please save me,_ and Ven wanted to laugh again, and his chest wanted to be warm, but only the echo of an ember remained. _What was it like to be on the same playing field as your friends, instead of feeling five steps behind at all times…?_ But it would be untruthful to say he’d never felt that way; the moment they had walked in, Ven had been dropkicked ten years into the past, to when he and his peers had solidified their personalities in relation to each other as they forged bonds that transcended blood. He had been abandoned twice in his life: once on the doorstep of a convent, and once when his best friend—no, his _brother,_ really—had disappeared without a trace. Watching Sora, Riku, and Kairi bicker and tease each other with a closeness he had experienced only in childhood made him wonder: _Would they look like that now, his friends from the orphanage? If life hadn’t drawn and quartered their little childhood group, would they be standing shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing like that?_

He carefully tucked those thoughts back into their box, sealed it up again, placed it on the floor of his subconscious and closed the door. Straightening his back, he retrieved the signed contracts and rolled them up, tied them together with ribbon and bow. 

“So what’s next for us?” someone asked.

“Well, let’s see,” Ven started slowly. “I think with this many people, we could actually hold some kind of performance, even if it’s only a small one. Of course, as you might have noticed in those contracts, I’ll pay handsomely for your time.” 

_And if things go my way, they’ll pay handsomely as well,_ Vanitas taunted him. 

“Anyway,” Ven continued, “I’ll take care of drawing the crowds if you’re up for entertaining them!”

“And talent draws talent,” Riku added. “Er, not to speak too highly of ourselves. But more people might want to join if they see what we’re doing here.”

“Suddenly he’s all excited about it,” Kairi whispered to Sora. “Wasn’t it just a few hours ago he was talking about how this was a scam?!”

“It’s just like you said, Kairi,” Sora whispered back. “He came around. He always does, right?” 

“Quiet down,” Riku told them tenderly. 

“A test performance,” Ven said, fist meeting flat palm in the universal sign for determination. “So it’s settled. No bells or whistles this time. We’ll get feedback from whoever shows up, and like, uh, Riku? Like Riku said. Maybe we’ll add a few acts to the roster? Who knows!”

_A few more backs to step on during your climb up to the stars!_ Vanitas said with mocking glee. _I’ll be sure to make contracts in excess. After all, they just might come in handy._

 

 

Strings of incandescent lightbulbs crisscrossed the ceiling of Ventus’s bedroom. With the threat of eviction no longer looming over his head, he had started to focus some of his efforts on brightening up the dark, mildewy corners, even if he could not banish the dark or the mildew altogether. Now the sight of the place did not immediately force a frown across his features, although the bare, ancient mattress and half-empty boxes perpetuated the apartment’s air of impermanence, as though he were merely a guest in its walls. Still, at the very least he had begun to think of it as a home, albeit a temporary one. 

Vanitas, however, had his own opinions on the gradual change of scenery. He detested the added warmth, hated the small trinkets Ventus set out in an attempt to decorate, and he did not hesitate to voice his criticisms loudly and often.

And Ventus had become practiced in the art of ignoring him. Tonight he sat on the floor, as he had the previous night and would likely do so the next, making faces at a mess of scribbled notes regarding the lineup for the small test show he and his new recruits planned to perform. They had yet to debut but here he was, already brainstorming ways to improve it. Tirelessly he worked, hunched over his notebook late into the night to ensure their first production reached its maximum potential. 

Or, that was the lie in which he allowed himself to indulge. Because a part of him, however small, knew that while he labored under the guise of hard work, it was merely an excuse. In truth he dedicated this sleeplessness to his own tendency toward obsession; if bloodshot eyes and trembling hands stemmed from a painful uncertainty over the success of the show, if they were side-effects of his wild thoughts and frustrating impatience, then perhaps he could ameliorate these symptoms a bit by working and reworking the finer details _ad nauseam._ If he could not have control over the outcome itself, then this compulsive desire to revise allowed him the next best thing: the illusion of it.

Ventus’s fingers moved of their own accord, dragging the dried nib across the page in looping, illegible text. He hummed quietly to himself through the demon’s nagging. 

_Of all the dreamers in this city,_ Vanitas was saying, _what makes you so special? Don’t delude yourself into believing it’s something as infantile as the ‘strength of your dream’. Plenty of people have their own pathetic dreams. Better dreams than yours, too, I’m sure. So why did you alone stand unflinching to the very end?_

Silence. Ven dipped his pen in the inkwell and returned to writing. He moved stiffly, like an automaton built for a singular purpose. 

_That wasn’t a rhetorical question!_ the demon hissed. 

“Oh. I don’t know. Anyway, what exactly do you do with all those souls?” Ventus asked. For the first time in recent memory he paused. He set the pen aside and stared directly into the open pocket mirror.

In the reflection Vanitas’s nostrils flared in irritation at the abrupt shift in subject. A smile poked at the corners of Ven’s mouth. Looking at the demon now—or, at least, the facade it had chosen to wear for him—he had trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that he’d once mistaken that face for his own. Though he couldn’t be certain that Vanitas hadn’t applied subtle changes to his own appearance over time in order to better mimic the diversity of human features, he was more inclined to think he’d simply overlooked tiny details, such as the way the skin around the demon’s eyes crinkled in thought, or the bluish tint his hair took on in direct light. With how busy Ven had been as of late, they hadn’t spent much time speaking face to face.

_Wouldn’t you like to know,_ Vanitas said after a beat. 

“I would!” Ven said cheerfully. “That’s why I asked.” 

Vanitas pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. _That’s on a need-to-know basis. You think we go around spilling trade secrets to every blockhead human who asks? You’re delusional. Besides, your tiny brain couldn’t hope to comprehend what we do with—_

“Oh, yeah?” Ven cut in. “Try me.” Mischief twisted his typically innocent features. 

But Vanitas’s own expression hardened in response. _No. Someone as weak as you would probably keel over from the shock. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t really have the stomach for unripe souls anymore; my tastes are more refined now… Anyway, as long as you’re still useful to me as a pawn for collecting more, I won’t risk losing you._

“If you ignore the first part, that almost sounds like something from a romance novel,” Ven said, then paled and hastened to add, “Not that I’ve ever read one, of course.” 

Despite his gentle teasing, Ven’s throat tightened. At the reminder of his own deceptions he felt a great, dark thing growing thorns in his chest. The moment Vanitas had proven to him the legitimacy of his demonic powers, Ven’s heart had grown wings, escaped his ribs and flown away on a steady breeze of renewed hope. But now an old hopelessness echoed back to him: _Are these wings? Or are they wires?_

At the end of the day a demon was still a demon, no matter how many humanizing characteristics it adopted. A hunter posing as a sheep; a woolen coat with sharper teeth. Ven had let his guard down at the crucial moment—or perhaps at the time he simply hadn’t had the energy to have his guard up at all, didn’t matter; the consequences for such a lapse in judgment had followed soon thereafter, swift and merciless, just as the operas of his childhood had warned him they might. 

_You really aren’t cut out for introspection,_ Vanitas snickered. 

Ventus dismissed him with a wave, a soft heat flushing his cheeks. “People don’t like it when you read their thoughts.” 

_Does it look like I concern myself with what ‘people’ like? At any rate, calm down. I can’t read your thoughts, nitwit._

Through narrowed eyes, Ven stared the demon down. Soon enough it rolled its eyes and continued, _…Fine. I can sense them. Think of it like this: trying to read a waterlogged newspaper. I can make out the shapes of the words—your pitiful excuses for conscious thought—but most of it comes out smeared, and I have to fill in a lot of gaps._

“Amazing. You actually explained something to me.”

_Don’t get used to it._

Ven leaned forward and tapped his fingernail against the mirror. _Is it like an aquarium?_ he wondered. _Does tapping on the glass disorient the demon, or is it simply a mild annoyance?_

“I have a right to know the truth, though,” he carried on. “I think you mentioned eating them—the souls, I mean. Do you feed on us to live? Or is it just for sport? What _do_ you use them for?” 

_Currency, mostly,_ Vanitas replied condescendingly. _Why do you think I’m confined to communicating you with this stupid thing?! If my colleagues were here they’d be able to materialize, but I’m head over cloven_ feet _in debt._

He crossed his arms and pursed his lips; Ven swallowed a laugh at the sight of the supernatural entity acting like a petulant child. To think he’d ever feared demons as a child!

“So… you’re kind of like me, then,” he said. “I don’t exactly understand how it works, but when you answered the summoning thing, it was kind of like how I answered the advertisement, right? A last-ditch effort.” 

_Don’t presume to know anything about me!_ Vanitas chided him. _But at any rate, the more people you sign on, the more power I can tap into, and the more I can do for you in return. Think of it like a loan: my boss can allot me as much power as I need, but I have to prove I’m good for it._

Ven bowed his head. Shame bit him like a frost. _Those were lives, personalities, dreams!_ It went against every human cell in his body to see eternal consciousness tossed around like petty coin, to be complicit in this infernal exchange. But he was also resourceful; at times even cunning—if he could not find the necessary loophole, he would create one. _Somehow._

For the time being, however, he would have to lay low, remain calm so as to prevent the web from tightening around him in retaliation. Perhaps if he held his breath long enough he could slip right out. 

_I’d like to see you try,_ the demon said. 

“You can bet on it,” Ven told him with a defiant smile. 

 

 

The floor warped slantwise in all directions. Lea’s toes curled in rebellion against the vertigo, the inescapable tilt of Earth’s axis suddenly acutely perceptible to his typically ignorant eardrums. But he trailed after Braig nonetheless, obedient despite his reluctance, on the condition that the enigmatic man reveal to him something that he promised would drive Lea to “reassess his beliefs”.

_Whatever that meant._

“Do you believe in ghosts? Angels? Demons?” Braig had asked moments before. 

_A question in response to a question. So that’s how he’s gonna play this._ No matter how much the evasive tactic infuriated him, Lea could only protest it up to a point; he had nothing on Braig, no bargaining power. He had simply scoffed and said, “Gee, is this what passes for a joke these days? But seriously, ‘skepticism’ is my middle name. What’s with the weird question, anyway?”

“A skeptic, eh?” Braig had clapped him on the back with enough force to prompt a shower of stars to streak across Lea’s vision like the goddamn Perseids. “Not like we have enough of _those!_ You kids these days need ‘proof’ before you put your faith in somethin’. Me? I didn’t ask for proof before I believed, but I still got it. Tell you what, I’ll do you a little favor. How about I show you something that’ll _really_ make you reassess your beliefs?”

“Dream on, old man,” Lea told him. “Angels, demons, whatever. If they were out there, don’t you think more people would have heard of them by now?”

In return Braig had offered him an inscrutable grin, followed by a finger pressed to his thin lips in the universal sign for secrets. He had motioned for Lea to follow.

And Lea, against his better judgment, was following.

They wound through the same twisted hallways he’d seen before, though they seemed somewhat different, somewhat rearranged; this apparent spatial shift did not disorient Braig as he led him past dark corridors that ended in abrupt, unforgiving walls, past brooding portraits, tarnished mirrors, past shadowy rooms in which Lea swore he glimpsed tenebrous figures moving about in the darkness. Eventually they came upon a staircase leading down into the depths of the residence. Braig produced a lantern seemingly from thin air, lit it with a match from a matchbook he retrieved from his coat pocket. He cocked his head toward the basement: an invitation. Skin crawling in the sepulchral chill, Lea clung to the railing like a sailor in a storm, praying to _anything_ that he didn’t lose his grip and tumble headfirst into the unknown.

When they reached the bottom Braig stopped and pressed his palm to a pitch black door. Lea blamed it on his still-hazy consciousness, on the suffocating cellar air, but he swore he saw some kind of an arcane circle appear, glowing a faint red in response to the older man’s touch. The door obediently swung open like a butler stepping aside to let them pass; it was maybe six inches thick, Lea noted with muted surprise, like the door to a vault might be. _They were really set on keeping people out, huh._ He squinted at its surface as they stepped inside but saw no traces of the symbols he thought he’d seen before. _Or maybe they’re set on keeping something in._ Another shudder ran him through.

The lantern seemed more symbolic than functional, with how little of the room it revealed. Lea could just make out hints of some kind of large domed object in the center of it, but it was concealed beneath a cloth in a manner reminiscent of how his grandmother used to cover the cage of her slumbering cockatiel at night. Suddenly he remembered a troubling trend he’d read about in the papers a few weeks back, something about scam artists luring unsuspecting members of the public into dark alleys and back rooms with promises of mermaids, faeries, magical beasts, then presenting them with optical illusions, puppets, and tricks of the light before asking them to pay exorbitant fees. 

Lea chuckled nervously. “Sorry,” he said, “but I’m not in the mood to get scammed today. Maybe another time.” 

Braig blew out the lantern. The dark that swallowed them was oppressive. “There ain’t no scams, _boy,”_ he responded. “Just me lettin’ you peek behind the curtain, free of charge.”

_Well, not exactly ‘free’,_ Lea thought. _You still want something from me._

“I’ll let you do the honors,” Braig told him. Lea started as bony fingers wrapped around his wrist and guided his hand up to the cloth. He wrapped his own fingers in the velvet, heart hammering despite the fact that there was nothing on Heaven or Earth that could possibly hope to sway him in the direction of the devout. 

Sucking in a breath, Lea pulled down the heavy cloth. But before it even hit the floor he stumbled back, all the wind knocked out of him at the sight of what the domed cage contained.

“So?” Braig asked. “Pretty, right?”

Lea’s face was as red as his hair. “Y-yeah,” he said. He had to lift a hand to shield his eyes from the brilliant, almost blinding light of the girl-shape within. Squinting, he could make out the vague outline of what his eyes interpreted as wings sprouting from her back, but his mind rationally assured him that could not be so. 

“And she’s more than just bright,” Braig continued. He rapped his knuckles against the bars, and the person—animal? _something—_ inside stirred. “She’s also _very_ good at finding things… and people. Patron saint of ‘finding things’, or somethin’.” 

With a sideways glance at his wily companion, Lea leaned forward, peering between the bars. Her radiance prevented him from being able to properly appraise her, but she _was_ incredibly beautiful, almost heartbreakingly so: waves of long platinum hair cascaded over her delicate shoulders to partially conceal the straps of a dress of pure white. Caught in the thrall, he began to ask, “Do… do you think you could find—“ 

But a violent force yanked him backwards before he could finish the question. Braig spun him round and grabbed him by the collar. “Did you really think it’d be that easy?” he spat. “As if! You come back successful? With that kid in tow? And we can have this chat. But until then? No dice. Capisce?”

Lea gulped, and Braig released him, promptly placed a firm hand on his shoulder, nudged him toward the door.

Before they left Lea snuck in one last furtive glimpse of the winged girl in the cage. She was sitting upright now, rubbing her eyes. Eyes that caught his, rendered him breathless for the umpteenth time that night. 

And her lips—what he could see of them through the haze of halo that surrounded her—moved silently. 

He did not have time to decipher what she might be trying to communicate before Braig all but toppled him over with a particularly forceful push. 

“Don’t get any funny ideas,” he said. “She might look like a human, but she’s not. She couldn’t care less about your petty problems. Come on.”

Lea’s head continued to spin; luck alone kept him standing upright—he had _never_ accepted “the grace of God” as an excuse, even in metaphor, but now he was considering it as he stumbled forward, cursing under his breath. The image of the strange girl’s vague features burned itself into his retinas, and he replayed the movement of her lips over and over in his minds eye until he had convinced himself that she had been saying: 

_Help me._

_Help me._

_Help me._

His heart ached for her, whatever she was—girl, bird, or something else altogether. But if he had reason to believe that Isa was out there, that Isa was _alive,_ then everything else came second to finding him. Even—no, _especially_ the life of a stranger already hopelessly entangled in a shadowy organization whose motives he could only begin to guess at. _Keep your head down,_ he told himself, marching up the stairs with Braig hot on his heels, _and do as you’re told until they think you’ve forgotten how to lift it._

_Then you can lift it._

**SOME TIME LATER**

 

Every Sunday evening Ventus took a stroll around the city. Accentuated by growing shadows, the architecture, he believed, was designed to look its best when draped in the golden hues of sunset. He liked to pause on the bridges overlooking the river, watch the picnic blankets sprout from its banks as if by magic. Complete with baskets of bread, wine, cheese, and quietly affectionate couples, more of them appeared each time Ventus blinked. Beneath him the water was aglow, a long appendage of the dying sun, and the brightest of the stars began to freckle the darkening sky above. Somewhere in the city, a swing band counted to three and took up a sunset waltz.

Ven reached into his pocket and smoothed a thumb over the mirror’s gentle curve, then thought better of removing it and placed his palms flat against the thick cement railing. He craned his neck over the edge in time to catch the tip of a barge materializing from beneath the bridge. The lights strung across its top deck reminded him of the ones in his apartment. An upbeat jazz tune from the band on deck mingled with the slow romance of the distant waltz, and though they were in competition for a moment as the boat passed by, the mingling notes were the sounds of a healthy, bustling city. He found he could not fault them for the brief discordance of their intermingling. 

“Y’ever wonder what it’s like?” came a voice from behind. “To cruise down the river like that, not a care in the world...”

Ven jumped, whipped around to find a face that took him a beat to place, but once he did he exclaimed, “Oh, it’s you?! From the—but how did you...?”

“Long story,” Lea chuckled, scratching his head. “Wouldn’t want to bore you with the details. But, look, you got out, too! And you even put on a few pounds; that’s a compliment! Any luck with that dream of yours?”

“Oh! Well—“ Ven began, but he stopped himself short, shook his head. “Well, we’ll see, but things are looking up! I can’t believe I ran into you here. You know, I take this walk on the river every Saturday night. You should join me!”

For a split second a shadow flit across the normally arresting green of Lea’s irises, but then it was gone, and he smiled. “Actually,” he said, “I was just on my way to get some dinner. I’m starving!” He paused to give Ven a conspicuous once-over. “And by the by, don’t worry about the money, alright? It’s on me. So?”

_Him!_ Vanitas hissed. _I recognize that scent. It’s a trap, Ventus. He’s not your friend. I thought I disposed of every last one of the unworthy vermin they used to lure me in, so there’s no way he should have survived..._

Ven took a deep breath, channeling all his focus into keeping any hint of dismay from showing through his grin. “That sounds fine by me,” he enunciated sharply. “I’m always up for making new friends.” 

Lea clapped him on the back. “So am I. You know, the more people you meet, the longer you live. What? It’s true! No matter what happens, as long as someone remembers you, you still exist. That’s why you should introduce yourself to as many people as you can, so you’ll live on in their hearts forever.”

“What’s with the speech all of a sudden?” Ven laughed. “But it _is_ a nice sentiment.”

He looked back over the river, where the boat had all but disappeared around a bend. _When he was gone, who would remember him? Aqua? Terra? Those acrobats he’d signed, the dancer girl? Would the world? He had no talent for the stage, just dreams. Even as a director he wasn’t particularly strong, didn’t have the natural penchant for leadership that people like Hayner possessed. Unlike Hayner, whose theatre troupe operated under rigid direction with little room for cast input or creativity, Ven’s visions were clear but easily swayed by the opinions of others. If he gained fame from this endeavor, would he even deserve it? Or would he simply be a parasite growing fat on the success of his gifted cast?_

“Lost ya there for a minute,” Lea said softly. “Still with me?”

_Ventus. You follow that boy and there won’t_ be _any reason for these inane contemplations on the quality of your theoretical fame!_ Vanitas spat. 

Ven ignored him. “Of course!” he told Lea over the demon’s incessant warnings, his almost _pleading_ tone of voice. “Lead the way!”

So Lea led the way. 

They meandered away from the heart of the city, drifting from the concentrated gathering of lights into darker backstreets, growing ever darker as the sun disappeared. Ven had grown up in the countryside where the dark itself had a heart. The Sisters had taught him to behave as though he lived among high society, but all the etiquette lessons in the world could not have prepared him for the bustle, the smells, the noise. There was always someone laughing somewhere, always someone arguing, and _night_ was a relative term when the avenues were paved with light in excess. He had arrived in town painfully unaware of the unspoken rules of city life. Some of these rules he had learned passively, others the hard way. But he had never quite learned the labyrinth. There still existed streets he did not recognize, winding alleyways where entire lives were lived out in relative peace, entirely independent of whether or not he intersected with them. Existentially, the fact that there were people living and breathing in the same city with whom he would never interact or even cross paths shook him to the bone. But in a serendipitous twist of fate he had managed to encounter Lea twice, which he took as a sign that he was doing something right. 

_There’s no such thing as ‘serendipity’ or ‘coincidence’,_ the demon huffed. _Not in a city this big. You’re more naive than I thought if you believe this was an accident. This was not an accident._

It wasn’t until shadows engulfed the city that a voice in Ven’s own head—one entirely separate from the demon’s—whispered to him of danger. They had strayed from commercial areas into a residential district, and Ven was beginning to suspect that Lea was lost. Politeness had kept the words on the tip of his tongue for awhile as they had strolled along in silence, occasionally pointing out monuments or people engaged in interesting activities. But as they turned into a narrow alley, which grew narrower with every step, Ven felt the question rising, unable to hold it back. 

“Hey,” he said at last. “Um, how much farther do you think—“

Instantly Lea turned around, his features contorted by anguish. It burst from him, his shoulders rolling back as though he’d been relieved of a great weight: “Sorry, Ven. Really, it’s nothing personal. But I’ve sort of just led you into a trap. Er, consider this your warning?” 

_What the fuck did I tell you!_ Vanitas all but screamed in Ven’s ear. _I’m powerless! And even if I wasn’t I don’t know if I’d help you, you worthless sack of—_

“Ventus! Fancy meeting you here.” Vanitas was interrupted by the familiar scratch of Braig’s grating voice from behind. While Lea visibly grappled with his conscience, Braig cracked his knuckles, smiled, beckoned to him with one of those long, bony fingers. 

All at once, Ven was cornered. 

“Shit,” he whispered, and that was when the gates of Hell opened beneath his feet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the break, i had to take some time to hercules this chapter into submission and doctor the plot significantly! this is my first time attempting ongoing fic or anything longer than like 2 chapters so i'm learning as i go, for better or for worse~ this chapter's a bit of a mess and i think it will undergo some significant edits in the future but for now i want to have it up! thank you my loves for sticking around, i adore you!


	6. Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> { warnings: brief violent imagery/metaphor, character gets a nosebleed }

_His human was fading fast._

Like intricate china, blue veins marbled his greying skin; his breaths came in ugly, ragged gasps as his body struggled to keep his soul from escaping through his lungs. Vanitas’s relief that, so long as he was in Hell, he was temporarily freed from the terms that forced him to share the human’s pain was overshadowed by his mounting fear over the prospect of losing his one-way ticket out of debt.

On the surface of the Earth, where Vanitas was naught but an invisible mass of conscious thought, Ventus had seemed fairly average for his species, if not a bit on the smaller side. Now, carried in Vanitas’s arms like some lifeless doll, he looked like a 1/4 scale model of his former self.

“What were you thinking, dragging me back down!” Vanitas growled. _“You,_ of all demons, should know the risks! It’s a miracle he’s not already—“

Lauriam stopped him cold with a mere glance. The demon lord’s rose-colored mane floated in an otherworldly breeze, accentuating his ethereal features. 

“There are no miracles here,” he said with a voice like a flute.

When Vanitas had first been placed under his jurisdiction he had dismissed the demon’s credibility as a noble on appearance alone. His soft, lilting voice and delicate looks had seemed indicative of a demon of lesser rank, of a more timid creature built for following orders, not giving them. 

It had been but a short decade until Lauriam had proven him wrong. 

Distinguished among the high demon lords as _“The Graceful Assassin”,_ he had not earned such an intimidating moniker for sitting on his claws. Few had ever had the pleasure of triggering his wrath, but of those that did he made examples so gruesome that all the legions of Hell would see them and quake at his power, and he left them up outside his lair to rot as reminders, as warnings. Unperturbed, Vanitas nevertheless had to commend his superior’s dedication to the art of torture.

Lauriam scrutinized him with an expression so enigmatic that Vanitas could not begin to analyze it. “You should be thanking me,” he continued after a moment, and he was right: Vanitas _should_ have ignored the urge to impulsively criticize his decision in favor of expressing his gratitude. 

“My Lord,” Vanitas said, and his perpetual frown deepened at the title. He refused to set his suffering prey aside long enough to kneel, so instead he offered a hasty bow. “I’d be less hesitant to thank you if you explained your decision. I had the situation under control—“

“Not from where I was sitting.” 

An ornately carved bowl brimming with the light of rare ancient souls sat on a pedestal next to Lauriam’s throne. Lauriam chose one at random and bit into it like a human might an apple. The opulent lifestyles of their Master’s chosen few had always sickened Vanitas; how carelessly they indulged in gourmet banquets while extorting those below them. Agonizing seconds passed as Vanitas waited for him to chew, swallow. All the while Vanitas’s human withered in his arms, and although the boy’s resilience astounded him, he did not wish to stick around long enough to test its limits.

Lauriam wiped the juices from his thin lips and continued, “I should have listened when they advised me about you. Considering your past and my reputation, I can’t say I understand why you’re still around...” He paused to look disdain upon Ventus. “My suspicions about you led me to keep a close eye on your Earthly endeavors, and within the blink of an eye you’ve already proven that surveillance necessary. It should be obvious why I intervened. Who knows why those meddlesome humans are after you, but I can’t afford that kind of a scandal right now. To think you would have fallen right into their hands all because of that creature! You see? You’ve already shown a troubling attachment to it. It’s not a housepet. It’s your way out of here. Your way back up the ladder. You realize I’m allowing you this opportunity as a favor, don’t you? So this is your first and final warning. Don’t disappoint me.”

_You talk too much,_ Vanitas thought, then panicked briefly as he remembered that some of the more powerful demons could read minds, even when they weren’t actively communicating via telepathy. But either Lauriam was not among them, or he _had_ heard, and simply deemed it unworthy of comment. He devoured the remainder of the soul he’d bitten into before. Vanitas glared as its glow disappeared behind Lauriam’s teeth.

“Do you really think me so naive?” Vanitas said. “Why jump to such a far-fetched conclusion when the reality is so much simpler: you’re right, this _could_ be my ticket out. This thing is nothing more than a tool, but can you blame me for wanting to protect it for that reason alone? As if I’d stoop to the level of human kindness, as if I’d be capable of caring! Please. Don’t flatter yourself into believing you know anything about me.” 

Rage, condescending laughter, even a smile would have been better than the way Lauriam regarded him then, chin tilted slightly upward and eyes lit from within. He wore an entirely neutral expression, devoid of any hint of anger, amusement, pity. Vanitas’s interactions with others rarely subverted his expectations; he had assumed that escalation on his part would send Lauriam into a violent fury. At least Vanitas could have reacted to _that,_ could have even used it if he had had the the wherewithal to do so. But this absolute lack of anything at all unsettled him so, shook him out of his bones, pushed him stage left of his gnarled body. 

“I know enough,” Lauriam said at last. 

“What you know is _rumors,”_ Vanitas spat. “And if you believe them then you’re as bad as the people who created them in the first place.”

“And who else am I supposed to believe? Of _course_ I take them with a grain of salt; those who spread them often have ulterior motives for doing so. But I can no more expect the truth from the object of rumor than from the rumor itself. I’ve found the truth usually lies somewhere in the middle.”

Mind scattered by impatience, by worry over his dying ward, Vanitas knew better than to waste time defending his honor to those who would never recognize it. “Whatever. I don’t need your advice. Don’t intervene again!” he hissed.

“Trust me,” Lauriam told him. “I’m not planning on it. Now run back to the light, you dark, twisted thing. You’ll learn in time that there is no place for you in it.”

Before Vanitas could respond the floor beneath his feet began to tilt. _Shit,_ he thought, clutching his human like a ragdoll. The world around him warped like a hallway in a dream, first stretching itself thin, then bulging toward him like a fisheye lens. He closed his eyes, drove the sharp curves of his canines down into his lower lip. 

Returning to his true form in Hell was painless, easy as breathing. 

Adjusting himself for Earth, however. 

That was another story. 

In clinical terms the demon’s essence is extracted from their body. With enough power they can reconstruct themselves on Earth, create a custom physical form to which their essence is already acclimated. 

Vanitas, of course, lacked the requisite power for any of that. He gagged on his own acerbic saliva, aware of every molecule crying out as his essence clung stubbornly to his birth vessel, knowing their efforts would be for naught because what Lauriam willed was law. But the process was too accelerated, too agonizing; Lauriam’s will tugged at him with a ferocity that would have threatened to tear him asunder even with the proper failsafes in place. And Ventus’s frail body began to disintegrate like a burning log in his arms. Flecks of ash fell from his skin but he remained peacefully oblivious to his own ruin. 

_What was Lauriam thinking?! The strain would destroy them both. Had that been his intention from the start? It also wouldn’t be out of the question for him to change his mind at the last second, get a head start on dismantling both Vanitas and his contract just for the thrill of it. But Lauriam had seemed so intent on orchestrating Vanitas’s downfall, so why dispose of him before he granted the former the satisfaction?_ He could grasp at straws as to the demon’s plans for him, but in precious few seconds he would no longer have the capacity—

No, that was wrong. 

His instinct for self-preservation kicked into overdrive and suddenly an array of possibility presented itself to him, wrapped neatly with ribbon and bow. He had nothing but promises to trade for Lauriam’s power. But, while not necessarily _endorsed,_ borrowing power from his _prey_ wasn’t necessarily _discouraged_ , either. Besides, could he really be held responsible if he took advantage of that sliver of soul that humans typically left unguarded? _The boy’s shadow._ If the inferior species had not yet evolved to keep their shadows to themselves, then it was simply the food chain taking over, simply nature running its course if he stole it to survive. _Not “stole”. “Borrowed”._

Through the vertigo twist of his vision Vanitas saw Lauriam flash his teeth, an expression that in no realm but Hell could have been interpreted as a smile.

_Jackass,_ Vanitas thought. He reached out with the edges of his mind until he found the part of Ventus’s soul cast aside across the floor, as if it were worthless tissue paper and not a slice of living essence. What shadow Ventus could afford to leak was thin, almost like paper to the touch. Vanitas dove into it, brushing aside the boy’s asinine dreams like cobwebs. The more well-defined they were to Vanitas, the more Ventus would be able to perceive of him in turn. He took caution not to reveal too much of himself or look too deeply—although it wasn’t as though humans had any depth to them to begin with. On the contrary: their status as God’s favored children was beyond Vanitas’s comprehension. Still, there remained more to Ventus than he was willing to see at this, or any, time. 

As the deep browns and reds of Lauriam’s barren lair melted into each other, Vanitas worked quickly to weave himself into the boy’s spirit. The world abstracted itself, warped like fever. Before he could tie off the last ends of their temporary union Earth’s greener hues bled in and the air steadied itself as they both passed through to the surface. At least Lauriam had had the good sense to place them in a location separate from their attackers, but Vanitas would have been lying if he said he was thankful, for his human was still out cold, and residing in the boy’s shadow constricted his movements to a radius of approximately _frustrating._ Better than obliteration? Perhaps, but the boredom blew in once the relief over his survival washed out, and he was left staring up at the stars until three familiar faces happened by and offered them a second glance. 

 

 

_“Sh-hi-hit,”_ Braig laughed. He braced his hands on his hips, shook his head at the place where Ventus had stood mere seconds ago. The maw of Hell had seamlessly stitched itself up as quickly as it had appeared; nothing remained that gave any indication of its sudden appearance save a few errant wisps of smoke, souvenirs left in the wake of its closing. 

“You can say that again,” Lea breathed. A volatile mix of emotions stampeded through his mind, and while he could not hold a single one of them still long enough to name it, one thing he knew for certain: he’d seen enough miracles in the past week or so to last him a lifetime. _God,_ he thought. _Whether you’re up there, or down below, I don’t know. And you’ve never done anything I’ve asked of you before, but it’s not too late to start. So please, dear Lord, I am begging you: no more miracles… !_

“Shit,” Braig said again. “Betcha never seen _that_ before. Damn it! This should’ve been easy, y’know. Just like I told you: a quick in and out. The demon can’t even materialize yet, for crying out loud! Mark my words, they’ll be back, but it looks like we’re going to have to regroup, ‘cause that kid’s got some powerful allies on his side. Ah, the boss won’t be happy to hear this. Maybe I’ll let you do the honors.” 

Lea’s fingers had gone numb in the brisk night air. He shoved them into his threadbare pockets, teeth chattering. “No, you’d better start prepping to do it yourself, because I’m out,” he said. “I’m no good to you anymore anyway, remember? I’ve outgrown my usefulness.”

“As if! Long as you have a pulse, we can use you. Besides, did you forget about our little agreement? Get the kid, and we’ll let you chat with our resident angel about your little friend. Aren’t you curious?” 

“What do you need Ven for anyway? Or the demon, whatever,” Lea blurted out. “You want my help? Then you owe me that much. At _least.”_

Braig narrowed his eyes. “And here I was beginning to think you’d never ask,” he said. “Kid, if you think we _owe_ you anything, you’d better rearrange your expectations, pronto. If anything it’s the other way around. You ask me, Boss should have killed you on the spot. But no, _someone_ just _had_ to step in and save your sorry ass”—he paused, chuckled to himself, raised his arms as if to surrender—“but hey, what’s done is done. _C’est la vie,_ and all that. Anyway, what does it matter what we need him for? Hell, even I’m not privy to some of it, and I’m the resident right-hand-man. Take it from me: the less you know, the better.” 

_Do you believe in ghosts? Demons? Angels?_ The absurdity of the question had caught Lea off guard only a handful of days ago. He found he missed his former confidence, the conviction with which he had relayed his skepticism. Now he stood staring at the negative space left behind by a hellmouth, and his eyes still stung from the unearthly glow of that strange caged girl with her ethereal wings and her pleading eyes large enough to rest teacups on, and he wondered if perhaps there was a grain of truth to Braig’s advice. Perhaps he had been better off not knowing at all. Perhaps he should go the way of all ignorants and feign disinterest, feign apathy in the face of wonder. 

But disinterest, apathy were not in his nature. He had sprung from the womb with a shock of red hair sprouting from his head and from that point onward never faltered in his individuality, never settled till he was satisfied, never looked back as he had grown to demand answers of the underlying chaos of the world. Answers he had been assured the world would never grant him, yet he called for them regardless. 

_Hey, Isa. Why does the sun set red? If you’re so smart, why can’t you answer such a simple question, huh? Come on, gimme an answer. Who knows, maybe I’ll even believe you._

_You’re way too stubborn, Lea. Give it up already._

_No way! I’m not a quitter like you, Isa. Aren’t you curious?_

_I don’t know, maybe it’s like stained glass. Maybe it’s filtered through something._

_Then why is the sky blue?_

_When I find out, I’ll let you know._

What had begun as a joke had rapidly morphed into genuine curiosity. Under the guise of discovering the answer to that simple question, they had both accomplished more than they ever would have had they not the fortuity of bumping into each other once upon a crowded marketplace. It became an excuse for competition as much as it bound them together. Isa’s once-in-a-lifetime stroke of luck in landing a sought-after apprenticeship under a wealthy old businessman had opened doors to higher education that remained closed to Lea despite his best efforts. Lea, meanwhile, had stumbled from job to job, collecting a permanent layer of soot that had coated his body like a second skin and cherishing what letters Isa found time to write when he went off to college in a far-off town, even as they grew fewer and farther between. Each holiday season Isa returned to the city for a few weeks at a time to visit the remaining fragments of his family. Each passing year turned him stranger by degrees so subtle Lea failed to notice the signs until one cold morning Isa looked at him with eyes he no longer recognized, and two days later he was gone.

All of that had led Lea here. _The less you know, the better._ Maybe Braig _was_ right.

But if Isa caught him thinking like that, he’d read him the riot act for sure. 

Because they had promised each other not to give up. They could have it all. All the knowledge the world had to offer. The secrets of the stars, the coordinates to the exact location of God’s own lair, the truth behind the creation of the universe. All of it. But they had promised each other never to stop searching until they understood why the sky bleeds at the seams of the day. If they did not have that, and if they did not have that _together,_ to have and to hold, they had nothing. 

“Tell me,” Lea said. With eyes brighter than the streetlamps that lit them, he clenched his fists and stared renewed determination directly into Braig’s core. “I want to know everything you know. I don’t think that’s asking too much, ‘specially not when you’re asking _me_ to risk life and limb for your little cult.” 

“How many times do I have to say it? It’s not a cult,” Braig replied. “And I told you already: I don’t know everything. But, shoot, go on: ask me something. Seriously.” He thumped a fist against his chest. “Open book, right here.”

Lea’s breath took the form of a cloud on the frigid breeze. “First question. Can we _please_ get back inside?” 

 

“—sleep—“

“—hours—“

“—doctor—“

“—tomorrow—“

“—can hear us?”

“—then no. It’s unlikely that—“

“—believe. He’ll be—“

“—say so. Oh! Look, his eyes—“

“What... are you… talking… about...” Ventus wheezed. He struggled to keep his eyelids open as his mind interpreted the world in no more detail than vaguely unsettling blobs of light and color. His friends’ familiar voices drifted in from on high but they were murmuring unfamiliar words, celestial beings speaking in foreign distant tongues. 

“Ven!” they exclaimed in unison. Aqua wrapped her arms around him, and Terra around them both, ruffling Ven’s hair with one hand and tugging them closer with the other. 

“We thought you were—“ Terra started, then shook his head.

“—going to sleep forever,” Aqua finished for him. She punctuated it by jabbing her elbow into his ribcage. 

A beat passed as they all held each other. The collective weight of their concern loomed like the threat of storm over Ven’s head. In all the time they’d known each other Ven’s primary concern had been preventing his friends from fretting over him. More than relief, more than confusion, the guilt over causing trouble gnawed at him, itched deep within. Of course they’d assure him it was no trouble at all; moreover, for reasons beyond Ven’s comprehension he was certain they’d be happy for the opportunity to care for him, comforted by the fact that for once he had not denied himself comfort. But it still turned his stomach sour to think he might have been a burden. As his thoughts once again began to stick to the floor of his brain as snow to frozen ground, he brainstormed ways to repay their hospitality. 

The sharp, shrill screech of a teakettle pierced the easy quiet. Ven started at the sound, which prompted Terra to place a protective hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off with a frown. 

“That’ll be the tea,” Aqua said, rising. “Terra?”

“No, thanks.” Terra cradled his hand to his chest; he looked less offended by Ven’s silent rejection than hurt, which drove a stake through Ven’s already volatile heart. 

“Ven, don’t say anything. You’re getting some, like it or not. You don’t have a choice,” Aqua told him. She made a hasty escape from the descending web of tension, leaving Ven to his own devices to discover how best to apologize for his brusqueness. 

He waited a moment to see if Terra would speak first. When he did not, Ven said, “It’s been awhile since I saw you two.” 

_“‘Awhile’_ doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Terra replied, settling beside him atop the mattress. “What’s going on with you, Ven?” His voice was even, free of judgement, perhaps even the tiniest bit upbeat. Instead of feeling reassured by this, however, Ven’s guilt only deepened. 

“Nothing!” Ven lied. He shrugged, rubbed a thumb in circles over the divot of his opposite elbow. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m sorry, but trust me. It won’t happen again.”

“Nothing? You’ve barely talked to either of us in weeks, and then out of nowhere those three kids from the other day show up at our door carrying your unconscious body. Said they found you face down in the gutter,” Terra told him. He made no attempts to mask his mounting irritation as his tone shifted. “What are we supposed to think?

Unlike Vanitas’s outbursts, which came in the form of explosive rants that fizzled out just as fast as they surfaced, Terra’s anger burned slow. His was a still, festering, rage. As much as Ventus would have been content never to choose which frightened him more, in his heart he knew he preferred the predictability and duration of his demonic companion’s sparks to Terra’s enduring embers. Still, he could not fault his friend for assuming an accusatory tone, especially if he really had been found sleeping in a gutter somewhere. Not that he remembered anything of the past twenty-four hours, no matter how hard he pushed his addled brain. But he hesitated to admit the painful gap in his memory lest it add fuel to the fire. _And where was Vanitas?_ The tinnitus of the demon’s absence rang in Ven’s ears; to his dismay, Ven found he missed the petty jabs and frequent pronouncements of disgust. Confined to the guest bedroom of Terra’s townhouse, he could do nothing but speculate.

“I’ve just… got a lot on my plate right now!” he protested. “With my, um, great-uncle’s… passing, the show, everything. It’s hard organizing all these people, not to mention the venues…” 

Aqua returned to save him from blathering on, her hands full with a tray of piping hot tea. Until he inhaled the deep, earthy aroma of steeped leaves Ven hadn’t realized how much his head hurt. Now that he was aware of it, the pain allowed itself to expand, forced itself in deep as a blade. He cupped his hands around a scalding teacup and frowned into the greenish hue of the water.

“Are you alright, Ven?” Aqua asked. She knelt at the bedside and exchanged a glance with Terra. Ven resented them both for their pity, hated himself for it. 

“Of _course_ he’s not alright,” Terra replied. His previous edge had dulled, though Ven was still acutely cognizant of that ember crackling beneath the surface. He opened his mouth to say more, but Ven interrupted before he had the chance.

“I can speak for myself!” Ven snapped, and then immediately winced. When he spoke it felt as though someone had slipped a razorblade into his nasal cavity, and his body, too exhausted to reject it, simply accommodated for the foreign object, begrudgingly tiptoed around its edges as if it had no choice but to accept it, perhaps in fear of sustaining a greater harm should it fight back. This was all metaphor, and yet, as if on cue, warm blood began to drip from his nose. 

Terra produced from his pocket a handkerchief so pristine Ven felt as though he’d sully it with a glance, but Terra wasted no time in pressing it to his leaking nostrils. He urged Ven to tilt his head forward and let the fabric absorb the blood. Setting the tea on the windowsill beside him, Ven reluctantly obliged and tried to entice his thoughts away from self-pity. 

“My head,” he said weakly. “Splitting…” 

“We called for a doctor, but she can’t come until tomorrow. Can you make it until then?” Aqua’s voice was soft, if not a bit unsure of itself. Though they shared a profound capacity for kindness, neither Aqua nor Terra had ever seemed entirely sure how to express it when it came to Ven, as if they were afraid of offending him with compassion. He did not blame them for their hesitation, could not when it was his fault in the first place. Still, it disheartened him to hear it so plainly in the wavering of her words. 

“I’m not going to die,” Ven told her with a shaky smile. “At least, not before that first show.”

“If you feel like you’re starting to, let me know. I don’t think my father would be happy if you did it in this antique bed,” Terra added, managing a smile of his own. But the smile was short-lived; Terra’s features quickly hardened back into disapproval. Looking to Aqua, he said, “We should go and see if they’re missing any ingredients for dinner tonight.” 

Aqua nodded her understanding. Had Ven not been occupied by the fruitless task of trying to stem the red tide dripping from his skull he might have called them out on the obvious excuse to talk about him without him present, but as it were he only glowered in their general direction.

“We’ll be back in a moment,” Aqua said. She reached down to smooth a hand through Ven’s matted hair. “The bleeding should stop soon. It might look like a lot of blood, but in reality it’s not that serious. Just… hang in there.” 

“Have fun,” he replied. Any hint of sarcasm was lost to the effort it took to form the words. He narrowed his eyes at his friends’ backs as they shuffled out into the hall. With one last glance over his shoulder, Terra closed the door behind him. It clicked shut with a thud that sounded to Ven’s enervated brain more final than it truly was. 

Their footsteps faded down the hallway and he listened for the silence before he allowed himself to burst into tears. 

_You look disgusting. What, I’m quiet for two hours and you use that as an excuse to start moaning about the crushing hardships of your brand new cushy lifestyle? I’d tell you self-pity looks bad on you, but, then again, it’s hard to say anything looks_ good _on you either,_ a familiar voice hissed in his ear. 

The warmth of immediate relief flooded Ven’s chest, calmed his sob down to a hiccup. He parted his cracked lips only to find he lacked the capacity for coherent speech, so he shut them again and dabbed away the last droplets of blood trickling down his chin. 

_Some degenerate must have taken your unconsciousness as an opportunity to relieve you of your possessions,_ the demon continued. _And do you know what? I can’t say I blame them. You should have seen how pathetic you looked when they found you lying there like a worthless sack of rotten potatoes. I would have done the same. Now get up. I suppose your so-called friends neglected to tell you that you’ve already wasted three days lounging around while your little troupe’s been hard at work. You should take advantage of it while they still want to make you proud._

“Three days?” Ven repeated hoarsely. “What happened? The last thing I remember was… Lea…” 

_Consider your lack of memory a lucky break. You tasted eternity, my—_ Vanitas paused— _my prey._

“I’ve probably seen worse,” Ven said, rubbing his bleary eyes. “But either way, I feel _awful._ Are splitting headaches usually a side-effect of going to Hell?” 

For a moment the demon did not respond. Outside the window, another day was losing its grip. Ven glanced down at the street below in time to catch the lamplighter making his nightly rounds. 

Then Vanitas said, _You won’t be happy with my answer._

And Ventus said, smiling slightly, “When have I _ever_ been?” 

And then he watched with his jaw growing slack as orange light flickered in through panes of glass and his shadow slid up the walls, cast itself over the sharp corners of faded wood dressers and the soft creases of fabric over shrouded mirrors, grew until its head touched the ceiling and kept growing. And it let pass through enough light for a smile, and it opened its eyes and Vanitas’s voice emanated from the negative space of its mouth. 

_I hope you don’t mind me hijacking your shadow,_ he said. _But I needed it, and, well, you weren’t using it anyway._

“I… what? I wasn’t—it’s a _shadow;_ what was I supposed to be using it for?” Ven stammered. “And what does that have to do with my head?”

_I would apologize for not asking your permission, but the thing is? I’m not sorry. I had to do it to save us both. So you’re welcome. And everyone knows that hearts are for chests and souls are for skulls. Things without souls don’t cast shadows. That’s basic information, Ventus. Take vampires, for instance._

“Now you’re telling me vampires are real,” Ven said. 

Ven’s shadow—Vanitas—scratched at its chin. _Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. It was a fictional example, nothing more. Still. You understand what I’m getting at. The pain is residual, from the binding process. Your weak little soul’s lived a cushy life up till now. It’s no wonder that it’s complaining about such a simple operation. And don’t pretend the pain doesn’t bother me as well! I just have a hardier tolerance for it._

Raising one eyebrow, Ven wiggled a finger over the still steaming cup of tea.

_Don’t do that,_ Vanitas told him. 

“Fine. Don’t get me wrong, just because I'm joking around does  _not_ mean I'm happy with you! But it’s not like I can do anything about it now. What’s done is done, and… even though I’m not exactly sure what _was_ done, I just… have to keep moving. That’s right!” Conviction surged through Ven’s nerves. “I’ve wasted enough time in bed. Everyone’s probably wondering what happened to me.”

_That’s optimistic._

“This was just a minor setback.” He thought of Lea, then pushed the thought aside. “I need to get back… to where I’m needed.” 

_When you’re done monologuing, let me know and we’ll go. But in all seriousness, keep your wits about you when we do. I wouldn’t want to run into those two clowns from before. Can’t promise any miracles this time._

“Miracles?” Ven laughed. He pressed a palm to his forehead in an attempt to negate the pain. “I don’t think you’ve ever promised me those. Only magic. Right, Vanitas?” 

_Is it a promise if I’m contractually obligated to fulfill your desires?_ Vanitas wondered. _It’s semantics either way, I suppose… Anyway, I’m still perplexed by how much time you manage to waste despite your impending doom. Three days to recover from a trip down under seems dramatic even for you. So? Let’s go._

On unsteady legs Ven rose. He thought briefly of Aqua and Terra, of staying, allowing them to dote on him as they had always wanted. But on one subject he unequivocally agreed with Vanitas; he’d wasted enough time. 

“Alright,” he said. “I’ve almost died multiple times, I’ve gone to Hell and back, and, worst of all, I had to make a public _speech_ at auditions. What more could the world possibly throw at me? It doesn’t matter; I’ll be ready for it!” 

Rejuvenated mentally, if not physically, he willed his body down the back staircase and slipped out the side door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know why i wrote like 2k words of ven sitting in a room. i don't know and i don't have the heart to delete them. holidays amiright. and "slow burn"???? yeah i'd like to file a formal complaint against myself for moving the plot so slowly, but also i feel like i'm rushing it at the same time? next chapter there are ACTUAL circus shenanigans. in my circus fic. imagine that. 
> 
> i keep having to sit down, re-assess, re-write, re-outline, and de-spair. thanks for all the kind words, and trust me, i'm not abandoning this fic; it's just growling at me. we're in the teenage years and it's telling me "i didn't ASK to be written". well, you will be. i don't feel confident in my writing style or ability to tell a story, but we're all just going thru it


	7. Spectacular Unspectacular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> { warnings: fistfight, mild ableist language }

****

**LATER**

Hayner wrinkled his nose.

All the nurture of his upbringing as a member of high society was enough to keep his inherently explosive nature in check, but only _just._ His pole-straight posture and slicked back platinum locks made him look perhaps more stuck-up than he truly was, and the hat, gloves, cane, and permanent look of disdain added to his illusion of upper-class apathy, but mere millimeters beneath the surface simmered a temper the likes of which he’d once been told that “Satan himself would cower from”, an accusation at which he’d smirked, then responded, _So, why aren’t you?_

And that temper paced circles around his ribcage, flared its nostrils, dragged its hooves over the calcium surfaces of his bones. Firing his head set designer for professional incompetence had put him back a good fifteen minutes behind schedule (he’d given him almost _insultingly_ simple instructions to repaint the flower petals in a lighter tint of blue, a request to which the designer had had the nerve to respond “but it’s the holidays, sir!” and “the show opens tomorrow, we don’t have time!”), but a _true_ gentleman was _never_ supposed to be in a rush to get anywhere. In the unfortunate event that he found himself in one, he certainly did not broadcast this information by _hurrying_. Instead, he vented his frustrations by gnashing his teeth as he wove through the crowd, flashing strained smiles, transparent in his disgust for the repugnant natural odors of unwashed bodies packed into the tight streets. If that _damned_ ex-employee had been decent enough to comply with a set of _basic_ directions he wouldn’t be running _late,_ and if he wasn’t running _late_ he wouldn’t have taken this ill-fated _shortcut_ through the backstreets, and if he hadn’t taken this ill-fated _shortcut_ through the backstreets he wouldn’t have found his route rudely blocked by these _degenerates_ standing in the middle of the street, heckling each other over the price of an _apple,_ of all things! Yes, the urge to argue for argument’s sake _was_ tempting; he understood _that._ What he did _not_ understand was why they did not simply suck it up and pay the full price _instead of further wasting his time by standing directly where he needed to walk!_

“Ex _cuse_ me,” he said with poison enough to kill a king. 

The man in his way, whom Hayner had interrupted mid-sentence (something about _worms_ and _rot,_ a conversation for which the latter didn’t wish to stick around long enough to hear the resolution), abruptly lifted a finger to silence the shopkeeper before turning to face Hayner head-on.

 _“Excuse_ _you_ is right,” the man countered over folded arms. “I’d ask if you were raised in a barn, but from the looks of those threads it’s more likely that Mommy and Daddy just forgot to teach you your P’s and Q’s. Care for a lesson?” 

The better man that Hayner had wasted his education trying to become would have swallowed his pride, apologized, moved on. But regardless of his tutors’ best efforts, he had never quite achieved the bare minimum level of humility for forgiveness. In classrooms he’d been taught the delicate details of etiquette, which forks to use for roasted quail and which to leave for dessert, how to execute a perfect, gentlemanly bow. These skills had their place, of course. He was not ungrateful for his upbringing. However, the most important lesson he’d ever learned was not part of any standard curriculum by any stretch of the imagination. 

No, the most important lesson was one he’d learned in the lawless lands of dim college alleyways dominated by after-school politics: _how to throw a mean right hook._

In the blink of an eye the man’s skull hit the cobblestone street. A gasp traveled like a current through the crowd, and onlookers craned their curious necks to catch a glimpse of the unfolding drama. Hayner straightened up, dusted gloved hands against exquisite trousers, and with an expression of practiced indifference met the gaze of any bystander brave enough to stare. A reputation for cruelty wasn’t the worst sort of reputation one could have, though he tried to wait at least a fortnight between what his advisor dubbed “incidents” to err on the side of caution. Lucky for him, none of them would dare report this little altercation to the relevant authorities. Even if they did, well. His father’s pockets were deep enough to hold many things, a handful of influential guardsmen included.

Hayner sidestepped the man on the ground, unperturbed by whispers of pulse-checks and vital signs. It was a point of pride how much power he could pack into a punch; that said, the insinuation that he might have killed a man with a single wallop downright offended him.  He dismissed it with a roll of his eyes. Let them say what they wanted, but the man would be on his feet again in no time, and by then Hayner would be long gone. 

 _Time,_ Hayner thought suddenly. A pang of panic echoed down his ribs. He paused to check his pocketwatch only to confirm what he already knew: this quick skirmish had set him back even later, and the rush of exhilaration that had bolstered his mood following the punch gave way to an even more sour disposition. 

Snapping the watch shut and thrusting it back into his pocket, he had no sooner stepped forward than the assembly behind him begin to murmur excitably amongst themselves. He whipped around and almost hiccuped from the shock. 

The nuisance-on-legs had risen from the bricks underfoot to crack his knuckles, roll his head from side to side as if he meant to challenge Hayner. 

Despite the audible tick of the clock embedded in Hayner’s subconscious, he couldn’t help but greet the provocation with a devious grin. 

“You should have stayed down,” he told his opponent. “Could have saved us both the trouble when I put you back in your place.” 

“I’m not in the habit of saving anyone any trouble,” the man shot back. “If anything, I’m more inclined to cause it.”  

And Hayner had to admit that this was a first for himself, because he was used to viewing would-be adversaries with abject contempt. But he could not deny the man’s mettle. Under different circumstances, he might have even admired it. 

“I don’t have time for you,” he said, half-laughing. 

This earned him a smirk. “Didn’t they teach you this in finishing school? A gentleman shouldn’t start what he doesn’t plan to finish. You may have thrown the first punch but mark my words, I’ll throw the last.” 

Hayner had just opened his mouth to respond when a hand on his shoulder stopped him short. He started, reflexively held up a fist, then quickly lowered it in embarrassment when he saw to whom the hand belonged. 

“Olette!” he exclaimed. “What the hell are you doing here—“

“Keeping an eye on you,” his long-time friend and advisor replied. “We were supposed to meet up twenty minutes ago, you know! It’s poor manners to keep a lady waiting. And getting into back alley fights? Really, Hayner, I thought we were past this.” 

The bold red of the apple that had indirectly caused the scuffle paled in comparison to the hue that blossomed across Hayner’s cheeks. _Public humiliation from friend and foe alike!_ _Could a man trust no one?!_ He shot one last antagonistic glare at the other man as Olette guided him away with a gentle yet firm hand upon the small of his back. 

“Hey! This isn’t over!” the man shouted after him. “Tuck your tail between your legs and run back home to Daddy, but you won’t win by bringing coin to a fistfight. I’ll find you, I swear it! And I swear to you now, on my mother’s grave: I’ll be the last face you live to see!”

Sensing the end of today’s excitement, those who had offered them a wide berth for fear of getting caught in the crossfire trickled back into the empty spaces, further parting the warring parties. Olette kept her chin up as she all but forced Hayner out of the congested pathway and into the blessed width of a main thoroughfare. 

“I can’t take you anywhere!” she said once they had escaped the throng. “I certainly hope they didn’t hold up the show on account of _someone’s_ tardiness. You must have been running late to begin with, if you were desperate enough to try cutting through the backstreets instead of taking a carriage! You’ll have to apologize to our host. Formally, of course. A nice letter. And no, before you ask, I _won’t_ write it for you this time.”

Coming from anyone else, disappointment merely rolled off Hayner’s back. Olette’s disappointment, however, sunk into his marrows, outstayed its welcome. Like a candle left to burn, it threatened to send his entire day up in flames if he did not take immediate steps to snuff it out. Not that his day could get much worse, but he did not want her disapproval to add to his growing list of concerns. He crossed his arms, stuck out his bottom lip. 

“A lecture? Is that all I get?” he said. “You aren’t even going to ask if I’m all right?”

Olette regarded him then with equal parts incredulity and grim acceptance. “If you _weren’t_ all right,” she responded at last, “I would have already heard about it. From you. _Many_ times.” 

Too stubborn to allow her the satisfaction of being correct, Hayner fished around in his pockets again to dangle the pocketwatch in front of her like a pendulum. “Well, I’d love to stand here and argue with you, but you said it yourself: we’re late…” 

At that, Olette seemed to relax, though Hayner knew full well that he hadn’t yet heard the end of it. 

“Then let’s not keep them waiting!” she said. “You are the guest of honor, after all.”  

So Hayner readjusted his silken tophat, puffed up his chest, and led the way into the labyrinth of dilapidated buildings that perched like ancient vultures at the outskirts of the city. 

 

 

Ven leaned toward the dressing room mirror, cupping his cheeks with his hands and squeezing them to give himself a comically squashed appearance. “I feel fantastic,” he assured his demonic companion, whose look of unbridled revulsion was superimposed over his own comedic one in a double-exposure snapshot that perfectly encapsulated their day-to-day interactions. “Besides, even if I didn’t, I managed to get _Hayner_ to come! _The_ Hayner! I _have_ to be out there. I can’t mess this up, Van…” He hesitated, then tacked on an awkward, half-whispered, “…itas.” 

 _Start to get familiar, and I’ll make you rue the day you were born,_ Vanitas said evenly. _Does it still hurt when I do this?_

Vanitas faded from the reflection, and a second later Ven’s shadow unfurled across the floor like an ancient scroll. The demon tugged at the elastic edges of the shadow’s contour, testing its limits. Immediately a sharp pain shot through the space between Ven’s eyes; he winced, pressed his palm to his forehead. 

“Stop, stop!” he yelped. “You made your point already!”

Their strange new connection had been a point of contention ever since Vanitas had haphazardly sewn his life essence into Ven’s own without his consent. Ven’s initial assertion of indifference had transformed into a quiet resentment the likes of which Vanitas could not claim to ignore, as it had become the electric undercurrent that hummed beneath their every conversation. If it was true that the demon could perceive the shape of his thoughts, then Ventus knew that, as of late, all he would have been able to perceive was the shape of a wound. _Why a wound?_ To trust a demon in any capacity invited pain; anyone even half-familiar with myth and legend knew that much, so hadn’t he given up his right to hurt the moment he’d signed away his soul? But Ven’s painful understanding of the fact that he should have known better than to rest his hopes or anything adjacent to them upon an infernal entity did not negate the fact that Vanitas’s actions ached like betrayal. At least in the past he’d had the decency to allow Ven the illusion of choice.

A knock on the door frightened Vanitas out of his impish mood, and with its disappearance Ven’s splitting headache also subsided. 

“It’s unlocked,” Ven called. The door squeaked open enough to let Kairi peer in through the crack.

“Do you mind?” she whispered. 

“Not at all,” Ven whispered back. “Come in.” 

With the tip of her ballet slipper Kairi nudged the door the rest of the way. She shuffled in, taking great care to conceal some kind of package behind her back as she did so. During a rehearsal period that had been sinfully short due to complications in booking the venue, Ven had asked Vanitas to summon up some new stage outfits for his starring roles (a feat that had exhausted Vanitas and forced him to rest due to his current lack of arcane resources; while vaguely concerned for him, Ven had nevertheless relished the momentary peace). Kairi’s performance attire, a purple tutu fitted over a soft creme-colored leotard emblazoned with shimmering gemstones, had been designed to complement her doll’s color scheme of rich purples, cremes, and golds. The beauty of the costumes that Vanitas had created had surprised Ven as much as delighted him; standing in the doorway and illuminated by the dim backstage bulbs, Kairi appeared as though she’d stepped right out of a dream, and Ven, in his glorified rags, had no business existing on the same plane. She smiled at him, and refracted light from the jewels glittered like earthbound stars across every available surface. 

“Are we still whispering?” Kairi asked, hushed. 

Ven blinked. “We don’t have to be,” he responded at a normal volume. 

“Good.” She padded over to the vanity where he sat and presented him with a brown paper parcel tied off with a bow of twine. “I can only imagine how much these cost,” she said, motioning to her costume. “You’ve been such a great leader to us all these past few weeks, and… we couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t seem to have anything of your own, so… we all pitched in and got you something. Um, it’s not much! But I hope you like it.” 

Ven took the parcel and stared down at it. Words deserted him. Ever since he’d heard that the plucky band of three—Sora, Kairi, and Riku—had found him and brought his unconscious body back to Aqua and Terra, he had had difficulty articulating his gratitude in any sort of meaningful way. A small, sad part of him considered rejecting the gift, thrusting it back into her hands with the justification that he could never accept what he could not repay. But the rest of him yearned for their approval as much, if not more, than they yearned for his, and so he could never sully the gesture with stubborn refusal. He looked up at her expectantly.

“Should I… ?” he trailed off.

Kairi laughed. “Of course you should! What good is a gift if you don’t unwrap it?”

A few witty responses flitted through Ven’s mind at that, but he kept them to himself. He patted the package. “Thank you. Um, well, it’s just… to be honest, I get kind of embarrassed opening presents in front of other people.”

“Oh, I’m the same way!” Kairi exclaimed. “Sora gets very intense about it, and I guess Riku does, too, in his own way. It’s hard to react when they’re both staring at me impatiently! I won’t put you under pressure, so don’t worry.” 

“Thank you,” Ven said again, and this time he hoped he effectively conveyed at least some of the weight he’d thrown behind the phrase. “I can’t wait.” 

“You’re very welcome,” Kairi told him. With that, she turned and glided away. 

As soon as the door clicked shut Ven tore into the paper with childlike glee. He discarded scraps with reckless abandon to uncover a beautiful crimson coat adorned with golden tassels. A pair of gloves rested atop it, so pristine he hesitated to touch them but did so anyway. Holding his breath, he slid his fingers into them and wiggled them around. The gloves fit as though they had been custom-made for his hands in particular. Unlike the subtle yet otherworldly enchantment that Vanitas’s costumes possessed, the coat and gloves, while more extravagant than anything Ven had ever worn, let alone touched, exuded an extraordinarily mundane aura. He adored them all the more for it, if only because here was something at last that Ventus owned and Vanitas did not. 

 _What lackluster design,_ Vanitas scoffed. _And such cheap materials! Cut corners lead to inferior product._

“But they’re _mine,”_ Ventus said. Solemn reverence bewitched his voice. He stood, lifted the coat up with gloved hands, held it out before him. 

 _Don’t tell me you’re actually going to wear that,_ Vanitas despaired. 

Still inspecting the coat, Ventus frowned. “I dare you to make me something better.” 

_How many times do I have to remind you that my resources are finite at the moment?! I need time to recoup my energy—_

“Then don’t complain!” 

Ven had become desensitized to Vanitas hovering like an unwelcome spectre, invading his privacy throughout every hour of every day, but he still stepped out of the mirror’s line of sight while he wriggled out of his threadbare shirt and slipped into the new coat. Its satin interior instantly dispelled the pervasive itch that cursed his usual attire, sliding softly over his skin. He returned to the vanity to tie it off, noting with pride how his posture automatically assumed a newfound confidence. He held out hope that his mentality going into the show would follow suit. 

Out in the hall someone shouted: “Five minutes!” 

Ven shifted his weight from side to side and listened to the floorboards complain. The opulence of the coat drew attention from his trousers, which were an inoffensive, sun-bleached beige that had once been brown, and his boots with a hole in the toe that was rapidly increasing in diameter. Would it be enough to keep Hayner’s lip from curling with disdain for his shabby appearance? He had found the astronomical ticket prices of Hayner’s show prohibitive and thus had not yet had the chance to see it; this inaccessibility to common folk served as further motivation for Ven’s own venture to succeed. With dreadful certainty Ven knew that the rich man spared no expense in developing his own productions. Would he find this performance charming, quaint? Or would he sneer at and deride Ven’s attempts at entertainment?

 _Frankly, I’ll be surprised if he shows up at all,_ Vanitas cackled. 

“Hush,” Ven told him. Nausea had prevented him from peeking behind the curtain to gauge the audience, if an audience had in fact materialized at all, so he had no way to predict how severe his stage-fright might be. With Vanitas’s assistance had frantically contacted a number of reporters, all but two of whom had ignored him entirely. One had written back with a kind, if impersonal rejection. The other had responded with a resounding “maybe”. But no matter if only a single reporter attended, or a hundred people of all walks of life, or five hundred, he would have to make an introductory speech. And judging by his anxiety during the auditions process, the odds of him walking off the stage without the proverbial frog in his throat were slim to none. In front of the mirror, he rolled his shoulders back, tugged at the hem of the coat to make himself appear taller. It was then that he noticed that Vanitas was right: he _did_ look ill, and the spotlight had a knack for highlighting the worst features. But he _felt_ normal. About to shimmy right out of his jittering body, perhaps, but at least he did not feel unnaturally sick given the circumstances. 

He would be fine. He didn’t have a choice. They would _all_ be fine. Everything would be. Because they _had_ rehearsed their acts, he reassured himself, albeit not for as long as he would have liked. And the group had developed a comfortable rapport. Perhaps Vanitas was capable of fabricating the impossible with a snap of his fingers, but the real magic Ven had witnessed was the bond his troupe had forged, the unconditional support they offered each other. Sora and Riku retained the healthy competition they’d always shared, and Ven had no doubt that Kairi would excel even as he fretted over the fact that the acrobats had not been able to replicate the successful routine from their audition. The other acts had also run into few problems during practice, but what snags they had encountered, they had ironed out with ease. He trusted them, and they all trusted each other. 

He just hoped that trust was enough.

“Alright,” he said, more to himself than to Vanitas. “I’m ready. Ready as I’ll ever be.” 

Vanitas said nothing. After a pause, Ven tensed his stomach muscles to keep his back straight and marched out the door. 

 

 

Onstage, Ventus squinted through the haze of the lights. From on high Terra controlled the spotlight; one brusque apology later, Ven’s friends had reluctantly excused his hurried departure from their care on the condition that he keep them better informed in the future. Ven had agreed, then promptly assigned them roles in the theatre with the promise that he would hire a real crew once he had the means to do so. Both had accepted enthusiastically, eager to be involved in his dream however small a part they played, and Ven had to admit it brought him joy to watch them interact with the motley gang of performers under his employ. He wrung his hands, cleared his throat, willed himself not to wilt under the pressure of the audience’s anticipation. 

A perfunctory scan of the seats revealed that, although a hundred or so families had come to enjoy the free viewing, Hayner was not among them. He had reserved the showrunner and his assistant a place at the front of the auditorium, situated directly before the stage. Their absence stared him down like a gap-toothed grin. 

“Well, thanks for coming out tonight,” he began. Once the echo of his voice faded, the silence that followed stung like a burn wound. Rationally he knew the lack of response was natural, and that, if prolonging this pause meant he was complicit in prolonging his fear as well, then he could relieve it by finishing the speech quickly. This knowledge, however, did little to douse his nerves. Behind him his shadow trailed across the stage, a long, warped version of itself. He prayed Vanitas respected him enough to remain still. 

“We’re a young, growing group of performers,” Ven continued. “So, um, we greatly appreciate you giving us a bit of your time, and we hope you won’t be too disappointed.” His nervous laugh prompted a few chuckles from the crowd, but he couldn’t determine whether they were out of solidarity or pity. “We’ll also be around after the show to—“

Before he could finish explaining what they would be around to do, the door at the back of the room burst open with a haunting gust of wind, blowing skeletal leaves and Hayner into the aisle. He coughed and cursed as he stumbled in the dark. 

“I told you we’d be fine!” he hissed loudly to his assistant. His assistant, a mousey-looking and thoroughly mortified young lady, all but shoved him down the aisle. Hayner tread on toes indiscriminately as he shuffled down the row toward his seat, leaving the woman to utter quiet apologies on his behalf. 

“Oh, and our guest of honor has arrived,” Ven announced with a broad gesture toward the newcomers. A scattered staccato of claps disrupted the room’s unease. Or perhaps amplified it. Again, Ven could not ascertain which. “Anyway, we’ll be around after the show if you’d like to give us feedback… so, well. I hope you enjoy!” 

Another round of applause, this time with increased enthusiasm. Ven took a hasty bow and scurried off into the wings. He tugged Terra’s handkerchief (since washed clean of any traces of his nosebleed) from his back pocket and dabbed at the beads of sweat on his brow. 

 _You do remember that you’re not done with the stage for the night, right?_ Vanitas said. _You’re the accompaniment, in case you forgot._

“I didn’t forget,” Ven said, breathy. “And don’t sound so… condescending. I just need… to calm down.” 

As he spoke the words his muscles unraveled, releasing their tension, relaxing his spine, his shoulders, his hips. And the knot in his chest unwound, dissolved to a tenuous sense of peace. He pressed a palm to his chest— _one-two, three-four, five-six, seven-eight—_ and smiled in wonder. 

 _No need to thank me,_ Vanitas told him. _In all seriousness, though. It’s not about you. Your anxiety gives me the chills. You live like this? No, never mind. Don’t answer that. I already know._

 _“You_ did that?! Doesn’t that count as healing?” Ven teased. “And if you’ve known how to do that all along, why wait till now? I thought you said you were short on power.” 

Vanitas grumbled his dismay. _I am! But I’m also tired of living on edge because you can’t keep your emotions in check. Now get back out there and play before that rich asshole leaves out of sheer boredom!_

From behind came the familiar squeak of the pulleys that controlled the massive dusty curtain. He’d left Aqua in charge of that. For the time being they had no real set pieces to speak of, only the acts themselves. In some ways Ven almost preferred the lack of extravagant backdrops and moving parts, as it allowed the viewers to focus solely on the actors. But he assumed that would change, in time. Calmed to the core, Ven strode back out and took his place behind the piano. The keys brought him comfort as they knelt beneath his fingers; he played as though possessed by the melody, as though he were merely the vessel through which the music conducted itself. After a short overture the acts tumbled in one by one, but he kept his head bowed, did not watch for fear that they might make mistakes under the weight of his fretful stare. 

Judging by the audience’s audible reactions, however, some acts seemed to fare better than others. The focal point of the show, of course, was to be Kairi and her dancing doll. They were the finale, the climax toward which the rest of the numbers built, the final taste of sweet enchantment that Ven would let linger on the tongues of the expectant spectators. Kairi had requested that he play the same tune he had played for her during their first fateful meeting and he had eagerly obliged. Now he waited in the silence that followed Sora and Riku’s frenzied tumbling, allowing the suspense to build. 

When he decided they had waited long enough, he played the first chord of the melancholy waltz and allowed it to dangle in the air, twinkling and whimsical. It decayed into silence again, and he played the next, slowly growing in tempo until the melody sprouted before him, Kairi’s cue to appear.

But she did not appear. 

Ven stopped, squinted into the shadows of the wings, searching in vain for his starring role. Perhaps she had missed the cue, and so he started again from the eighth measure, counted her in once more. He drew the notes from the piano but still she did not emerge. 

Swallowing, he stood to face the crowd. “My apologies,” he said over the roar of nausea in his ears. “We’ll be back with you after a short break.” 

He darted offstage while Aqua hastened to drop the curtain, all of Vanitas’s efforts to soothe him undone by a single mishap. 

“Have you seen Kairi?” he asked the first hapless soul he encountered backstage, which happened to be Riku. 

Riku quirked an eyebrow. “Is she not out there?” he asked in return. 

“No, have you seen her?”

RIku shook his head and thrust a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the dressing rooms. “You could ask Shiki,” he advised him, referring to the beastmaster. “They were back there together awhile ago.”

Ven nodded and took off down the hall. At the girls’ dressing room he halted and rapped against the door. He heard a great commotion inside; something heavy toppled over, and voices overlapped in the language of muffled distress. Eventually the door flew open to reveal Shiki standing there, breathless, her eyes wide and wild. 

“Thank God you’re here!” she exclaimed. She took Ven by the wrist and dragged him inside. Kairi sat on the floor, her face the color of a bridal veil. A hollow had gouged itself from the depths of her eyes in the short hour since they’d last spoken. Ven had never witnessed anything like it, especially not in someone as bright as Kairi; her cheekbones looked sharper, more concave, but perhaps it was merely a trick of the light. He knelt on the floor in front of her. 

“Is… everything all right?” he said. “You missed your cue, so I came to find you…”

“No,” she replied. He did not think her capable of snapping at him or at anyone, but the tone she took on now seemed as close as she would come to expressing her irritation. “It’s not. She’s missing.” 

It took a moment for Ven to pick up on who she was referring to, but when he did he felt his own face pale to match her ghostly complexion. “Your doll?” he breathed.

“Xion,” she corrected him. “She’s not here. She’s gone, but her… her box is still here! Ventus, she’ll _die_ without it! If they take her out in the rain like this, her paint will melt away and her joints will rust! Who could be so cruel?!”

On the verge of tears, Kairi set her jaw to keep her lips from quivering. She cast her eyes downwards and tugged at the hem of her skirt. 

“Did you see anyone come in or out?” Ven directed this query at Shiki, who shrugged helplessly. 

“No!” Shiki said. “No one’s been back here except us! We came out to watch Sora and Riku, and of course I had my own act to perform, but otherwise…” 

“Someone could have snuck in while you were out,” Riku suggested from the hall. He stood back and let Sora rush past Ven and Shiki to sit at Kairi’s side. “We were all preoccupied, so it’s possible.”

“You’re sure you didn’t just lose her?” Ven said. His psyche buckled under the strain of identical glares from each of the occupants cramped into the tiny room. 

Riku grunted his skepticism from the back of his throat. “She’s a life-sized mechanical doll,” he remarked. “So I’d say that’s unlikely. Besides, Xion’s basically—“

“—Kairi’s sister!” Sora butt in, visibly distressed on Kairi’s behalf. “And our friend! We have to find her, no matter what!” 

“We will,” Ven assured him. “I… need to go and tell them what’s happening… Riku, why don’t you go look at the box and see if you can find anything?”

Riku acknowledged the suggestion with a nod. Kairi had refused to leave the box unattended overnight despite the fact that they had rehearsed here every day, instead opting to carry it to and from wherever the three had managed to rest their heads. Seldom did she let it out of arms’ reach. It sat open now in a darkened corner of the room, empty and aching in it. Riku and Sora rose to inspect it, and Ven, satisfied that they would surely discover some kind of clue as to the doll’s whereabouts, left to face his fears upon the stage. 

Back in the weary eyes of the audience, Ven wrung his hands.

“Um,” he started, stepping in front of the closed curtain. “Thank you, again, from the bottom of my heart. We’ve run into some… difficulties, so, that’s all for tonight, folks! I really appreciate it, as always, and… feedback would be amazing so, if you’d like you can talk to my… associates in the lobby and they’ll listen to whatever you have to say.” He shot a glance at Aqua, who smiled her encouragement. 

Disappointment rippled through the crowd. Those who had stayed long enough to hear his ending speech now meandered out of the theatre, murmuring amongst themselves. All except Hayner, who stood, brushed his coat off, and stretched his arms up toward the ceiling with an extended sigh. 

“So, when does the show start?” he laughed. “Don’t tell me it’s over. I’d thank you for the free admission, but you know what they say: time is money.” 

Ven’s chest was caving in and he had to stand upright and pretend that it wasn’t. “I think they have potential,” he said quietly. 

Hayner captured a yawn behind trimmed fingernails. “Hold on. Before I start criticizing you, let me introduce myself. I mean, I know you know who I am, but still. I’m Hayner. Pleased to meet ya.” 

“…Ventus, and likewise,” Ven told him, wearing an expression that he was sure Hayner would take to mean the opposite. But it was either lost on the other showrunner, or else he chose to ignore it out of politeness. 

“Of course, I’ll write a review about your little gang in the papers. They tend to take me pretty seriously for some reason, but… can’t say it’ll be _too_ positive. Don’t worry about it, though. Since it’s your first show, I’ll take it easy on you. It won’t be _too_ scathing.”

Ven chuckled uneasily. “Is—is that supposed to be a joke?” 

Without warning Hayner clambered onto the stage, jumping up and landing with a satisfying thud of his fancy boots. “Depends. Are you laughing?” He paused, before continuing, “Then, sure, it was a joke.” He reached out and caught Ven off-guard with a firm hand atop his shoulder, stared him directly in the eyes. “But I’ll be honest with you, kid. I don’t know if you _or_ your crew got what it takes to survive. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. Sure, you made it farther than most and actually managed to put on a performance. Good for you. But take it from a pro: you should quit while you’re ahead. Trust me. You think I’m being harsh? Just wait.” 

 _What a brat,_ Vanitas observed. Ven held back a snort. 

“I guess I’ll have to find out for myself, then,” Ven said. He refused to wither under Hayner’s condescension. This setback would not deter him. If he knew one thing about himself for certain, it was that he was stubborn enough to flourish out of sheer force of will. Obstinance would fuel him if nothing else. 

Hayner snarled in disgust. “Don’t come crying to me when you get hit with disappointment down the line,” he warned. “Because mark my words, you will be.” 

He turned heel to leave, and Ven, spurred on by anger, frustration, or something else entirely, hollered after him, “I’ll see you there!” 

“And where’s that, huh?” Hayner taunted, not bothering to turn around. 

“At the top,” Ven informed him. The conviction in his own lungs astonished him. 

“If you get there,” Hayner replied. 

Ven’s gloved hands became fists. “I’ll get there.”

This time Hayner glanced behind, flashed a toothy grin. _“If_ you do,” he said, “then I’d be happy to call myself your rival.” 

 

 

So an inconsequential paragraph in the Sunday paper proudly proclaimed Ventus’s failure, and he tacked it to the wall of his room out of pure spite. Even negativity could be fuel, he reminded himself, though it did not help him sleep. With little to go on the troupe continued their frantic search for Xion, but she was as elusive as a phantom was to a skeptic. In front of his peers Ven had become accomplished in the art of faking smiles, but when he was alone his concern replicated itself, a virus attacking his own mind.

“What’s the point of having you around if you can’t even do something as simple as finding a doll,” he snapped at Vanitas one night. “You said you’d make my dream come true, but nothing’s changed. If anything, I just feel worse than I did before!”

Silhouetted in Ven’s shadow, Vanitas recoiled visibly. But a second passed and he recovered, arched his back and loomed over his human ward, blocked out all the light in the room.

 _I can’t tell what’s eating you more: that ugly doll, or that ugly review. Oh, but it’s the latter, right? Pitiful. You’re every bit as weak as he claims you are,_ Vanitas whispered. _You disgust me. Pick your head up, idiot. If you’re looking for stars, you’re not gonna find them at your feet._

Ven dragged his fingers down his face before burying his head in his arms. His voice was muffled when he murmured into the pillow: “Just solve _one_ problem, Vanitas. _One_ problem. Without making more along the way. That’s all I want.” 

Vanitas shrugged. _And all you had to do was ask,_ he replied. Then, for good measure, he added: _Stupid._

He still lacked much in the way of standing or power, but human tools would work just as well for the kind of havoc he had in mind. Eventually he’d have to find that damn doll to appease Ventus, and to keep the show going for the time being. Although he could not create a perfect production from thin air, at the very least he could destroy their competition. 

So Vanitas snapped his fingers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays~ 
> 
> HRUGH i need to think about this fic a lot more stylistically. i wrote all of this chapter in one sitting and then didn't touch it for the longest time! also, reading through this chap i was like... there's not much vanven in it??? oops? trust me it's... absolutely still a vanven fic. i'm trying to alternate between plotty chapters & introspective chapters. whether or not that's apparent is beyond me. 
> 
> anyway, in the meantime some beautiful people have drawn art/written fic based on it and i am, absolutely in awe (with their permission i'll link them here, tba) of the feedback i've gotten thus far. i'm sorry upload schedule is so hectic but i want to get back to steady updates <3 i love you all!


	8. Intermission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> according to my notes, i've been sitting on a nearly-complete version of the next chapter since december. since then, i've become a full-time student on top of working nearly full-time. as much as i'd like to do a full overhaul of this fic before continuing it, i simply don't have the time right now. it's on my mind though, as is continuing in general. the next chapter needs a few scenes but is otherwise almost acceptable.
> 
> anyway. here's the prelude to it, wherein the lines between ventus and vanitas begin to blur as an effect of their deepened connection. 
> 
> more importantly, it involves vanitas committing arson.
> 
> exciting!

**LATER STILL . . .**

_It was a white light._

_The kind that flattens corners, entices them into forsaking dimension. Sourceless, out of reach, intangible._

_It was a bright white light._

_And it was whispering. A language he’d discarded long ago. A parade of impossible shapes sounded out from the mouth of a dream. A world with no horizon, no vanishing point until he turned his gaze inward, found the vanishing point inside, found the insurmountable threshold was just a line drawn on a page that he could scribble over or erase with no effort, or ignore altogether if he wished to ignore altogether._

_When he reached out, the light flickered like a freeze frame on a film projector. Its flickering was in response to an action; he knew implicitly that the light had the capacity to acknowledge him. But even through the ever-rearranging logic of the dream he understood that this was preposterous, that it should not behave in this way._

_He wanted to glance over his shoulder, determine its source. It seemed to be contained within itself, and yet it had to be born of something, from somewhere: the original burning. He had to find it. He had to be sure it had one. He had to find some fixed point in this strange and inconsistent universe by which to anchor his senses, reassure himself that this world obeyed at least some of the rules of physics set forth by his own (even if it disregarded most others). He should have been casting shadows all around. His body should have left behind a darkness in the negative spaces. But his shadow didn’t rest anywhere within the scope of his vision. The lack of it felt wrong, some integral part gouged out or sedated. Without it he could not be whole, and his body would forever mourn around the craters it left behind. Could he live that way? Imperfectly?_

_He did not know. He did not wish to wait for an answer. He raised his hand. The bright light flickered._

_It felt good, the silent acquiescence of this unearthly glow. This was right. He chewed at his lip, wondering what had caused him to question its behavior mere moments ago. It was as if someone else’s consciousness had momentarily invaded his own, another mind peering through his eyes. But he dismissed the fantastical idea. Of course the light trembled when he moved. Shouldn’t all things? He told it how to be, and that was how it was. He was the original burning, the father flame. To think otherwise was heresy. A smile returned to his face from wherever it had hidden and he plucked the light from its position in mid-air. How he’d missed the weight of fire in his palms! He blew into it, watched it grow, and there he found himself again, perspective fully realigned in the wake of its temporary slip._

_There. That was better._

_With a confident step forward, the dream melted away and left him standing in an abandoned alleyway. A rat squealed underfoot, a telltale sign that he had returned to the grime of this reality. He tilted his chin to scan the sky for stars, but the night was devoid of any other, greater burning. So the conditions were ideal, the stage set. A burning he would make. He let the orb of light fall from his grasp, then raised a brow as though he hadn’t meant it to let it slip, while in truth he had estimated its trajectory to land atop a pile of kindling: dry newspaper, bundles of sticks. This was not an accident, but neither was it premeditated. He wondered how anything, anything at all could be premeditated when it always came down to a single decision, a single moment of choosing action over inaction, or perhaps vice versa. Nothing ever gained unstoppable momentum; there was nothing that, once in motion, could not be halted by a split-second choice._

_He watched the flames feed and multiply. It was a white light, not of this world. It would flatten this place, but this place alone. It would devour this block but leave the city unharmed. Satisfied, he turned to leave._

_And he ignored the perplexing feeling that, in doing so, he left something behind._


End file.
